Motes

The shaft of late afternoon sun
cut her body aslant from
shoulder to hip, picking out the
faint albino hairs, the riot of
priapic milk-glands about her
tumescent nipple, the shadowed
underhang of her breast, the
heave of her stomach after such
unaccustomed exercise, the
drops of sweat trickling to her navel
and the dark hair below now
bright as a bush full of raindrops.

As I lay back her hand sought me,
hoping for more, and the sun
caught the motes—some no doubt
her skin, some mine—slowly
settling through slashed air
to make one flesh.