From Passion
i
He draws memory out of me with hands of fire.
His touch is miracle and shock.
My masseur strokes me into swallow-light,
torrents of dove.
He kneads me. His fingers are wildfire and blush,
rose and scorch. I bask and singe. His hands burn me.
I moan. He firms the fiery earth of me.
He sears the air of me. My flesh furnaces.
(But his kiss on my throat pulses a cool radish scent.)
We loll and sweat on his plush throne, on far flung cushions.
I tremble under the tact of his touch.
His tongue floods me like honey and cirrus.
I slide into my own sheet-of-fire ghost.
ii
Like a god humming and making things
he puts his lips against mine. Oh I shiver!
I freeze! He is ice. Hi is knife-bladed and bleak-beaked lover.
Now I am his oblong silk scarf left to chill in the freezer,
along with the icecream and the raspberries stelled with frost.
He is frost-bite.
He kisses each nipple to zero.
His sex is a prism of ice in me.
Now the sky calls out for its birds in my voice.
Now a door od dawn slams.
Our reign of henna and sauna is over.
He flies to heaven on my warm heart.
The Old Man
Often after we make love
I dream of your aged father
as if our lovemaking
has led back to your beginning,
your sire roused by our pleasure.
In the vigor of his age
he's like an old charioteer
telling us that what we ride on
is out life,
what we use as our vehicle
is the breath
one day we will let it go forever
as for an instant
we let go of it in love.
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