Circle

She lives to nibble
At the core
Of sharp, polished curves

Each bite,
Is a morsel of soft lust,
First fissures
And ample harvest moons

Surprising revelations
Suck
At the center
Of her

Like a cliche
Wet,
Deep
In the dark crevice
Of its cave

The nimble rummaging
Becomes desperate
For the hearty bite
Of a corner.