The cog in lovers’ vim is evening’s lambent direction,
calico in conversation and strung across the porch
like a private breathy trapeze
upon which familiar sex flywheels back and forth,
a pendulum ionized by tireless middle-aged voltage.
We kiss like blown sockets,
a corner of every bone has knocked open a bruise of lust,
our crescendo leaves the porch like the treble of sleepless birds
or nervy cusses from a distant dog.
The trapeze collapses and flicks to a quiet crumpled heap.
– Don O’Cull