Читать книгу Intermarcity - Кирилл Кошкин - Страница 6

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In the pattern of the night the bodies were woven. Line by line, turn to turn. They build the passion of stars, triangles, interlaces. Breathing flows the body into the body. Sheets slip, saying: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ The heat of a whisper with vague beads of words flows through the air, through the dusk. Slips-lays down the skin, behind the ear, with a wet curl, a strand in an open, empty mouth. Sigh of a bow on the dull strings of a groan. A soft hand slid along the folds. She squeezes, pulls, hungry looking for the touch of necessity, thirst-need. She meets his sister and whisper: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ Another thing happened. She turned to other consolations-pleasures. Round to round, saved to the keeper. She puts her palm to her stomach and holds the world, folded into the sweetness of tubules and secret grooves. She draws on her stomach a sign singing: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ She comes, late, insatiability, sits on the edge of the bed, lies down. She hugs them. She hastens a string of sweet sighs to the exit, presses the waves with fluffy paws, and presses again. And she whispers: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ And she smiles into the darkness. And she laughs silently and contagiously.