There is no weakness in yielding, the sympathy
of immaculate sex, the ways you stir me deep:
your tender, quick breath and bold attempts
to speak truth to me. I have kissed you
from here to Durango, a long, invigorating road
that gassed us from first touch, a slight passing
as our cheeks grazed. Even the first pioneers
felt no such thrill rolling blindly West,
their nights curled in sex
as the open country awaited them.
I strain for your breasts when I sleep
alone, I grasp for you, to feel your lips
on my back, to taste your tears in the night —
the sensual base. I have traced a long journey,
a finger from your longest toe
and the upward route until I come to rest
on your smooth, loved brow. And yet
I have pounded my fists in the slowest parts
of night alone; only God can know
how slight living can become.
We both know how the unknown grooms madness,
how the idea of a last touch rips
the road away from us, lets us stumble through
uncut fields, the irony of a surrounding harvest bounty.
We are potential, this idea that something is ahead:
love that wipes away that typical sex,
that good, shaking sex,
to be supplanted by this crippling madness.
We walk without shame,
we touch others still, a stiff walk
into a gale wind, the image of other hands
cupping you, of other lips slipped delicately
in place. But I know of this delicious want,
this thing, your body,
and I will suffer this endless trek with hope
to again be between those parts of you,
to look down, your hair gripped tightly in my hands,
and speak without words
as our tongues are occupied by knowing.