sticky fog dew on your ass (sonnet)

Dark rain, your bottom held apart by thong.
I've been here before. I have entered you
like a back door. A hallway I belong
in. A door you left wide agape. I knew
you would let me. Now pull the shadow cloth
to one side, lean back – into ease, into
velvet cushions – while a mix of need, froth
and wild honey glitters; sticky fog dew
on your ass. Winter solstice. December
rain. I want to make you sing – a wet stone
giving off blue sparks. Tell me: what vowel
do you make orgasming? Remember
how I felt inside you? -- hung like whalebone,
making your surprised O end in a howl.