I could lie against you,
mouth on fore­head, limbs woven
into a knot too dense
for yearn­ing, hear­ing the gos­samer flurry
of your breath, the wild nearness
of your heart­beat, and it still won’t be

close enough. 

I could swal­low you,
feel the slur­ry of you
against palate
                       — and throat, 
rav­ish you
with the rip, snarl
and grind of canine
and molar, taste the ances­tral grape
that moth­ered you, your purpleness
swirling down my gullet,
and it would be a kind
of knowing,

but you still wouldn’t be
me enough. 

I’m learn­ing, love,
still learning
that there’s more to desire
than this trib­al shudder
in the loins.

But I’m not sure
I’m ready
for it yet -

that shock
in your dai­ly kabuki
of shape and event.
 
Not yet.

Not yet
that shock
of vacancy.
 

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