, , , , ,

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.