Erotic poem, but not Joycean

Erotic poem, but not Joycean or in a letter to Nora

Your lips are dry
and the goods are overboard
playing lewdly,
panting and poured between
two dark places,
you're flush and biting
and sweetly burning,
until you've garbled
with your secret talk
and teeming.


...And Then Sleep

Your lips in whispers
shaped in traces of my name,
hidden in murmur.