page 108

Have You Not Known? Have You Not Heard?

Warmth, silk of perpetually wet flesh, the rough knap in a tongue's hollow

I
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
I

(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.