The thighs have it, all quivering and sweaty,
bubbling under fire like a planet about to be
violently born, but held back by skin
and bone and the bed beneath.

Late in June we went out
To gaze at the moon on the water.
I told the story of Li Po,
Who died, it’s supposed,
Leaning from his boat
Trying to embrace its silver glow.

Imagined us taking the midnight train, playing Russian parts, tasting of grain.
Through the winding mountains, under the winter looming,
I wanted to wear fox, with blue liner on my eyes, to stare at you dreaming.

Helicopter in range,
the whump, whump of its rotor blade,
inches from the sunning skyscraper.

You kneel at the bed,
With pursed lips,
Like a child listening
At the edge of woods.

Abel and Lucy sitting in a tree.
F-U-C-K-I-N-G