Harken hither, yea, thou sweet strumpet:

O fair nymph, the way thou mov’st truly
Hath humbled me, thy servant thus entranced—
Muse! Pluck hard indeed thy harp through me
And lo, ladies, behold your song! Askance
I sip the flow’ring vine’s ambrosial dew;
Though soft, thou drop’st thy silken skirts unto
The gilded ground upon which mammon rains,
While handlessly thou swing’st for silver’s gain.

Unto the floor thou fall, O maiden fair;
A loinless love I owe thy derrière!
Sufficient for the day to me: to stare
Upon thy swag, my coin cast in the air.

 

Translated from “No Hands” by W.F. Flame.
Ithaca, 2013.