Erection

I love the shape of a flaccid cock,
     a wrinkled hood hanging over the end,
     beckoning my tongue to lose itself inside.

I could spend all night exploring it:
     feeling out its crevices,
     sliding the skin across the glans,
     warm and slippery beneath my touch.

Except dawn interrupts me.
It grows slowly in my hand
     and, like the sun rising above the waves,
     eagerly and implacably, smooth as the morn,
     its shiny head emerges, ready for my touch.