Renée Vivien: The Touch

Renée Vivien

(1877–1909)

The Touch

 

The trees have kept some lingering sun in their branches,

Veiled like a woman, evoking another time,

The twilight passes, weeping. My fingers climb,

Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches.

 

My ingenious fingers wait when they have found

The petal flesh beneath the robe they part.

How curious, complex, the touch, this subtle art—

As the dream of fragrance, the miracle of sound.

 

I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,

The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts.

In your white voluptuousness my desire rests,

Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.

 

Renée Vivien poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive U-V, Renée Vivien, Vivien, Renée