I’ve mocked you, grinning,

 
I’ve mocked you, grinning,
for the ginger in your beard.
And I’ve poked and pulled the dark hard hairs
which surge up from your face.
 
I’ve worn the grazing rasp
of stubble on my face
(and on my neck
and on my breasts…)
 
And once (a secret)
tweezed your glinting stubble
splintered
from my hands
from my caress.
 
Yet sometimes, when I stare
(I know my staring disconcerts you)
I hardly see the shadow of your beard
but see—
instead and only—
the softening cushions of your lips,
the gentle planes which strain to softness,
which smile in repose
which dance against my own
 

(3/8/13)

 
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