To me first—in bed, wombs-

Bodies

Call from me

To her, 

To speak out,

To accept what

Tick of light my mind said

Would,

And could only, pleasure itself

In picturing- or feel to touch, in thinking,

She is there. A body alone, A body I have

Myself—Sought,

What little dress apart sinks on wood--

My own spine is in her fingers, round,

Read as if she were blind, needed truth,

And In my own skin I speak—Travel here--

Her thighs coupled,

Warm--

Countries with a deity

Between them,--

Perched wet, alone--

Find my own; a found river sweeps us,

Skin of honey chalk—A moon of brown umber,

Be one body, and I myself will too,

It is in truth, what life is--to travel endless; seek lands,

Only once collided, the corners of our bones

Form a soft curve, ideal--

It is new to brush one feature of my earth to be yours,

Mirrors don’t drink us here--

We have new eyes to reflect back,

Yours, My own, Ours,

Apart; Fresh --as new vision

Laps us in its wedding of images;

Seeing we become one,

We are alone- but not lonely,

Or as the bodies of travelers

Move—we are alone but

Now--truly through our finding

New grounds; Curious we roam,

Finding one another in a body,

Ending as one.

No longer a search apart,

But living moment to the next,

Pulled into a stumbled act; we live--

Pleasured as a feature of searching

And the left isolation, a warm body,

A quake of whispers,

And the old drum of heat; in exhalation

 A flame fanned.