—the pleasure of lusting
after you is to stroke, with my finger
the hollow beside your eye so lightly
you only shift and turn in your sleep—
hmmm— a small, satisfied sound
and your arm drops across me
in sleepy caress, and fits
under its weight, the arch
leaves my back, I become soft
as the sheet, waver down
your snores

—or to lie, blanket to chin
while you warm last night's coffee, lie
with one knee turned out, fingers idling
casual as the stroke for the cat
who sometimes rumbles beside us
as we toss, feeling everything
become fluid, rounded
a watery terrain

—and then to pull you
down to me, turn with one motion
from back to front, close my hands
around your ankles, close the triangle
as you rock me from below, as we
climb a long, slow wave to the
top, glide down

—what pleasure, then
to drift into dream of rocking
together up wave after wave
or wake, cup palm around
your shoulder as you drowse
beside me, watching

—three small, sleek, blackbirds
in the tree outside the window
whistle and preen

—roll again over you