Symptoms of the Sun God

Dark rising sun. No need to knock before coming. Pulling your shirt up, your chest opens; I see ripples- muscles and ribs under your smooth skin. Could I reach in? You are David, can you see it ? I said your body was a painting but I meant a sculpture- I meant it as the sighs of Michelangelo, as they must have been, as he stepped forward and ran his hands down your back, his tongue against a stone thigh, one limp hand holding the chisel, the other cupping a cheek. You have both made your home in me.



Pagan, I lie. In the shadows, Ra rises up.

Bare skin. Trees split with single cracks- an ax against stripped oak. Pools of water. With an earlobe, and four hands pulling, we can mold sinews. You dig rivers with your fingernails, come up gasping for breath from beneath waves. We wake early in the morning to escape the afternoon crowds and skinny-dip in oceans. Minutes to dip our toes in. Do you find my ankles daring?

The riverbed is scattered with golden and purple stones. I’d like to bite into your palm like a peach.