Consummation
Slumbering under the double covers, now distant
as infants, we no longer mind: the unpardonable odors
of feet refuse to stay put, take the shapes
of shoes and start shuffling off; wherever
we touch, sweat
wells from pores, mists of it lift, drifting across
our landscape of upheavals; hairs are blessing
creases with various ointments; and everywhere
that our insides either are or have been outside
musks and musts come tumbling up our flue of heats
to be breathed: what was too stale for kissing
commingles like an account above perverse
backbrains on polymorphous pillows. Years of this
have made the cover a sky, an atmosphere, a climate
beneath which, likely couple, we begin to repeat
and resemble--the way our child reflects us both--
and when he wakes we’ll nestle him and inwardly
sigh with the pleasure his glowing skin gives back.
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