I love fleshy women whose buttocks rise
in my hands like freshly baked bread,
arms that surge outward from my embrace,
thighs that surround me like love itself.
I love flesh that is firm and tender, flesh
that is wild, I love flesh that is yours
these afternoons when rain falls gently as flesh itself,
when all that is moral dissolves like flesh,
and only the sounds of flesh can be heard
singing, We are still here, love, we are going on.
~Michael Blumenthal, "Flesh
"