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.
 

[print-me]