Storm-sheathed. I slip the squall back inside. Why
this rage? Cloudy outburst; your plum boughs bounce
on the bloom. Moody, you called me. Each thigh
splayed, now settle down – and watch how I flounce
on the floor each time you grind your crevasse
across my face. We all need harbors, space
to cool. Ride me like that leather and brass
gizmo, your wet glow maker. Grace. I’d trace
the way with tongue, but, amour, I’m cocksure
I’m broke. No excuse. If you must bend
in my blow, storm crow, where others fissure
and snap, that’s my fault. If you must endure
love then it ain’t. Just a gale without end.
Just one more tempest that you can’t harbor.