the body is such a
misunderstood thing, an inchoate message
of froth and desire and sweat—
confronted by the gravitational pull from
anyone else's mess,
we succumb and gain closeness.
all the verbs we espouse can't find traction
on the slope of physicality we build:
to play, to ponder, to touch.
in the dim coolness of a bedroom
there is no equality to be had, only gender
and the roles and rules we perform.
and your body,
with its broadness and solidity,
makes acts of surrender all the more delicious.
i keen for your surety,
that incontrovertible effort of appeal
and design, you make me weak
and feminine and glowing, all in one stroke.