we were kissing
and dancing
to a kitchen song,
talking with our wine
and smoking bong;
then you pushed your pierced pin
of forged fire
further in
the groove of my desire
with your tongue.

later,
up the creaking wooden escalator-

“let me do you” i said
peeling back your petals
with my voice:

love is stripped to sharing bread
abroad-in plain rooms-where Nora and Joyce
reject precious metals.

it brings to craggy green cliffs
that still talk-
of two minds, in the seaborn mist
of one thought-
why should four legs walk
under clouds adrift.
glum damp rock moss cups
when we go to ground
under body musk
and pagan sound-

the meaning of the hour
when lit lusts flower
fills the air
everywhere
at last
and the future does not imitate the past.

– Strider Marcus Jones