bone of my bone

I ignore the fever
to write, to admit:
the fall of man,
the panic of orgasim,
the fence I'm straddling.

I have known the thrust
of love-- the way it moves
in and out, the way it ocean's
over me-- my body
is the wave your finger's pulse.

I cannot write, but know, the taste
you leave in me-- the salt that
seasons, the honeycomb wax
that drips deeper in and seals.