I'm glum about your sportive flesh in the empire of blab,
and the latest guy running his trendy tongue like a tantalizing surge
over your molars, how droll. Love by a graveyard is redundant,
but the skin is an obstacle course like Miami where we are
inescapably consigned: tourists keeping the views new.
What as yet we desire, our own fonts of adoration. By morning,
we're laid out like liquid timepieces, each other's exercise in perpetual
enchantment, for there is that beach in us that is untranslatable; footprints
abound. I understand: you're at a clothes rack at Saks
lifting a white linen blouse at tear's edge wondering.