Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled

arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.

One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled

sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,

vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,

husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes

of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover

caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes

lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind

to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,

her heels dug into the mattress. She ground

down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined

back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled

between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.

— Babylon Crashing