Motes

The shaft of late afternoon sun

cut her body aslant from

shoulder to hip, picking out the

faint albino hairs, the riot of

priapic milk-glands about her

tumescent nipple, the shadowed

underhang of her breast, the

heave of her stomach after such

unaccustomed exercise, the

drops of sweat trickling to her navel

and the dark hair below now

bright as a bush full of raindrops.

As I lay back her hand sought me,

hoping for more, and the sun

caught the motes—some no doubt

her skin, some mine—slowly

settling through slashed air

to make one flesh.

Teat

A ghostly orb in a dark sky,

milky sinews of moonlit cloud

capped by a demanding,

tumescent teat—well,

what can a boy do but

suckle.

Toes

For L in her time of trial, and in hope

 

Why is it that, in the

woozy postlude to a

stupendous post-lunch fuck when

all our organs seem

open to each other, every

atom of our bodies

plastered together, I

most remember the tickle of your

toes against mine?