For the Time Being

There will always be places on you no mouth has touched, but I have great plans anyway. Despite the sand-grit day today, can’t you see I want to stop the longing, the limpid swoon thickening press.

The boat’s under water again. You’re swaying on deck, limbs akimble, hush, lips trembling. Me somewhere between the deep and the shallows.

Nothing to say but you win. Your unfair advantage. An ass made for hands and a back that could be used as a raft in case of high waters.

On the shore, even the trees shrug. Why fight it.