On your chest,
where the valleys meet my head, pressing
against the soft hairs that line
what you said about just how delicious you tasted;
it was true. I find in these soft afternoons, I am wanting
for nothing so refined
as a reclining. A declension
of verbs that mean
to be supple. To be supine.
I can feel your river
pressing gently against the lower forests of my spine,
and I don’t resist.
I love it when desire makes itself so readily known.
I love it when you look into my eyes
and I, and the universe look back
in the gaze of the early evening sun. Not in surprise
but in intimate, shimmering friendship
that does not need to be naked to reveal what is living and alive
in your chest.
Your nipple is dancing against my ear, but I desist,
because I wanted to listen to your heart, and I insist
that that is where we start,
when it comes to appreciating the art
of how two men, gay, straight or whatever you want to call yourself
learn to respect and cherish each other’s bodies,
each and every earthy and flowering part.