With vulpine curiosity, the camera noses its snout up to her ass
rippling extravagantly on impact. As if the act were not absurd

or tedious enough, I’m forced to linger on the dour scrotum
jowly as a venerable mayor and her buttcheeks, a fly’s compound eyes.

She’s got glasses, no doubt a “See me after class” prop, and a Chinese-
ish tattoo cozying up to her spine. Here the gravity-manacled body’s

dream of buoyancy is granted as, mid-bounce, her breasts float
in high tan spheres, perfect as a medieval Madonna’s; here his anxious,

oily pork-sword may at last stand fast without pills in troughs,
indefinitely, like a fossil. What lengths you and I, too, have gone to make

our sweaty efforts last, one-upping ourselves inside Gordian knots
made of legs. Even as our blood hurtles us to the finish, we loiter in coitus,

deferring when you’ll mop your thighs in paper towels and I’ll crash
into my snug little death. Better not to slow down but rewind instead:

your cum spooled up in you, us buttoned, hooked and zipped
into daytime people. If only we could stream back to that first ache,

never having touched before, your riddling body a Cyrillic letter
before I learned to pull a language from its forked silence.