Listening to Vivaldi's "La Follia" (Rough Draft)

1.

I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies
fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.

2.

They say the neck of a woman is like the handle of a violin,
long and un-pluckable. It is her waist that sings
beneath your fingers, her breasts that fit into the spaces
between your thighs.

3.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs,

as the ladies hover, stoccato, around the table,

their handles still unpluckable.

4. 

But oh, what music in that little piece of skin: 

Would it be soft and melodic, or more dissonant, like the work of Shoenberg?

5.

You flex your fingers.