Afterwards, your lips will part and
held open against flustered
and flushed sheets, drawn off like
rind from the bright fruit heart,
tart sweat lingering on two tongues kissed by
this is the still order of passion’s pause:
Recover before I kiss you again,
before I draw another poem
into the flesh of your shoulders; a poem
rouged, pattern-rhymed with every sound
expelled from your open
shiver-shudder lips, every sound a
susurration and earthquake.
Come, love. Again.