Where you go

     What is it with the skintight strokes?

     like he knows, his hands are easy like they’ve never done anything else

     and you don’t know what he thinks in the dry climate in his thoughts

    

(you dream of a love made from alchemy

where you transmutate each other’s being

pulling the coils around your bodies.....)

 

      he wants to track your tangled moans your

      slimy pleasures and follow them

backfurther.

     he stalks through the trees, absorbing the light,

     he sits under the shade enjoying your lazy grass,

     of the fever dressed flowers he pulls no petals,

     he wants the thing

     you slip between the bed mattress

the dusky essence you push back

     with limp breath.

buzzing insects

busy bees,
     will he look around in disgust

     or trail it into the lake away?

     he draws too close

     neck slightly bent lipssmile

     that gentle perversion could hold

     down this placid panic.