Cappuccino, and post-coital cigarettes, and
The darting clatter of your perfect Parisian French.

I look at you and hear only an indefinite lullaby.
Time is not here.
This is the beginning of the world again.
Your mouth is a little bow.
Who could have made your pouting little lips just so?

I'm admiring the architecture of your face.
I can't get over your liquid eyes.
I can't get off your perfect eyebrows.
I am deliciously tired.
It's eight o'clock but we have not slept.
You're talking away, but I am not hearing.
I've already worked hard long through the night and
I am so glad to smell my fingers as I raise the cup.

With this new Sun I'm ready to love you forever.
Last night, going in, I had no suspicion.
But you knew.  You knew what you'd do.
You know your power to infect.

Your body, like your diction, is perfect:
Soft on the surface, otherwise hard.
You're half-mad  —  everyone knows that  —
And, in sudden understanding I sense it.
Things are opening up, like a new South Sea.
How far can I go into it?
You are clearly half-crazy.
How far can I go before we begin to fall away?

You half-mocked my first efforts,
Asking if I were a virgin, not afraid to
Frighten me.  You did frighten me, later,
With your vocals.  And enthralled me
With the scratching and the biting.
I'm yours now.
Your screams in the night prove something,
But I don't know what.

I'm waiting. … I'm ready to find out
What it is about you that makes me feel in touch with …
What? … Something delicious that I cannot say …
Some fulfilling unforgettable power.

Over-relaxed from the flex and flux of orgasms, I cannot fathom
A word of what you are saying, but that bow of a mouth
Is mine.
I just want to study you, is all.

Of course, I know that this is just infatuation,
Another infatuation, that's all.
I know that, and I know that I shall have to pay.
Because this body loves you, and that is the deepest truth
It's ever known.
I am on the lip of your madness, and surely I shall pay.

I am not hungry, but I could eat the world.
I am very sleepy, but who would miss your sounds and smells?
Who would commit such a suicide of passion?
Be that as it may, come what may,
I love you now.
In the drone of your voice I hear only the red red lips, the white teeth, and the pink tongue.

Right now there is only the towering up
Of strong desire, not quenched in sex, not finished in thought,
Not subject to words.