Demiurge

There is a demiurge living in my belly. 
I giggle until spring violates the Earth's cold corpse. 
The brash moon waits for us to curl our eyelashes and unfurl our hips.
I flamenco with a woman in my throat. 

Her center orbits around her movement.   
She's like Julie Andrews, like Audrey Hepburn, 
with perfect lips and eyes a child would draw. 

Pithy, husky, intellectualism.
How many times have we discussed Communism? 
We must be approaching revolution. 
How many times have we walked around the block?
Our feet must have broken ground.  

​I am preoccupied with her curling eyelashes and unfurling hips.
I am infatuated with the singing in my gut.