Your Hips Beneath my Pregnant Hands

You gave me, songs for late hours
I hunger after your rippling
Skin, flesh come alive
Your silver back of cold divinity

Your thighs of shattered sensations
Your hips of warlock-tumult
Wine and kisses, led me to this –
Your small breasts and unexpected

Nipples, your sweet moans
For hard days, your last resort
Of petting me, stroking me
Let us wash our limbs with moisture

And make a cringing siesta
Of our tired bones, weary lungs
I’ll give you French names
In bed, unclothed and free at last

In our naked ease, I’ll give you massages
And detach you from reality like a feather
With circling tongues around your
Wet spot, split heavens like dark rain

Feast on your native smells, vivid heart
I’ll tip your golden buttocks an open leaver
And find great engines of burning there
Wanting your wetness over me without end

And season myself in your whirlpool of lust
You gave me, songs for late hours
I’ll give you blazing gardens of desire
And you will squat on me like a passionate princess.

Paddling With Breathlessness on Stilts I Write

Until now, I knew I possessed nothing
Damned by decrees of my own
Selfishness, I pretended

Behind a circus show of reason
At the Ball of tantalized feeling
But now, I know the way the world ends

Whatever else I might succumb to
It will be the poetry of freedom
Without rhetoric, or tricks of lying

Or slang speech particular to my times
Until now, I hid in incredible musical scales
Behind melodies, beneath the chorus

All poets pick themselves out of rivers
I’m half-deceived, by the lovers who left me
Because I was nothing but a poet

But it’s my first white wave of climbing hope
The last word I say before my doom
Whatever else, poetry is my first freedom

So don’t ridicule me for loving a kind of art
My dream is an impatient cadence pure
That gives me resurrection, when life

Offers me none, these flaming parenthesis
Have become my means of transcending you.