I'll end with a poem called "First," a new poem.
First you were body to me.
My body wasn't mine.
My body departed in you and yours in mine.
First, you were on your right side naked.
Your palm and arm pillowing your cheek loosely,
fisted the way our sun tore his path out into this world,
and slightly curled like a 19th century
model, decent like a 20th century magazine cover.
And my fingers dragged your nerves,
and you shuddered between unknowing this was wakefulness,
and this was slumber.
To seduce you, reduce you to myself,
corrode myself at the anode for you.
No ecstasy without betrayal.
No desire created equal.
And when it was over, you had been over me.
The flask had lifted.
You here and now, you had me opening to opening.
Thank you.