Your tongue in my hair,
in my mouth, your mouth—the circle,
 
the complete meaning of round, an egg
held for the length of a prayer.
 
Your skin, your skin—let me touch
the soft pouch of your belly,
 
smell the smell of your fir
trees, rusty and fragrant with fire—
 
we are nothing
more than what we cherish,
 
a night jar left to beat in the canyon
of my palms. I am ready
 
now to sleep
with your braid in my mouth,
 
for you to be the wife of my wife,
or even my wife. You
 
warm against me, your breath
deep on my neck. That I would hold you
 
when the desert rain wakes us,
that we could talk quietly together
 
about the melded meanings
of rain: its dams,
 
its flows. What it gives.
What it takes away. Then
 
I could lift the covers for you,
tuck you close into my lap,
 
my arms around you, each of your breasts
an open eye wide under my hand,
 
my nose in your hair and
behind your ears, your most human
 
smell, crushed mushrooms and old apples. Let me
lick you, lick you, there.

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