Have You Not Known? Have You Not Heard?
Warmth, silk of perpetually wet flesh, the rough knap in a tongue's hollow
am lying with my legs wrapped around you, one thigh in the soft indentation of your stomach, a joist beneath your body's bridge. The minutes of this age, Afterwards, are as close-fitting, as clear, as air. I know accurately all your scents and textures — the oily sheen on your back and neck, your hair curling, not wayward but exact — as a river is exact, obedient to gravity and the stones of its bed. Your cushiony flesh, taut muscle-tone of arousal gone, its smell — sweat, oil, soap — a feast. You rest your forehead against mine, lashes lowered, face weightless, the spin of the earth reversed. In love, in the love-act, recognising each other — making a positive ill. (I do.) And, breathing your breath, breathing together, the air in my face blowing out of your mouth is sweeter, more invigorating, than the air in the room
(Love fills my mouth, fresh, acidulous, and I am forced to spit it out)
said it. It is a closed book, print kissing between its covers. My love is a papered-over pit.