Off

When finally I grow tired of your body,
it will not be of your butterfly caress,
your hands laid like ripe persimmons
on the swayed table of my back. When finally
your thrust into me is no longer heroin
and does not swell my veins, does not, when absent,
leave me shivering with need, make you just
another load of laundry that holds my interest
only to split bright colors from flat hues, when
finally that lively watersnake, your tongue, slithers
not through a damp and folded earth of me,
but rather over desert, where heat and lack of food
determine its slow death. Well. Until then,
you are weather. Your casual lightning strikes me down
and my earthy skin shows my bare and ever wound.