Do you recall that throat, call up a memory
of former privilege, of that former matter
that was, almond-like, white and lovely,
an almond-flower of half-rotating cream?

I recall and do not recall that history
of ivory dying away into hair,
where the swans’s neck learnt how to frown
and proclaim ephemeral snow.

I recall and do not recall that core
of choke-able feminine coldness,
like a brief and milky track.

And I recall that kiss without rest,
that stayed between my mouth and the path
of that neck, the kiss and the day.