hold on tight
to the eros steam
that rises from your shoulders,
  forearms,
  and thighs
as you sit with me on the log
on Kits beach
at 3:22am
on this eternal hot August night
of corporeal reveries,
emotional missives in the form ofeyebeams
and moments of lips drying out
  from the oddly warm breeze
  that sometimes glides upthe sand
  from off the pre-dawn ocean.

I
want to hold on tight to that steam
to keep it
close to us
because [I guess]
I fear it’s not eternal, 
though there’s no reason to believeit can’t be,
and shouldn’t the goal be to makesure it is,
back and forth between us,
engrossing us?

and what of mine…
what do you see of the eros mist
  emerging from my pores?
I can’t see it [I never can]
but can you?
if my will were involved
it would be orbiting the both ofus
elliptically
coyly never coming closer than necessaryto our skin
but just close enough to ever re-draw
  goose bumps when they wane
  from lack of studied attention
  from gliding the backs ofour hands
  over each other’s limbs.

because if you ask me to go
I’ll go
  down to the water edge
to dip my fingers in the salty murk,
then return to you
to slide my fingertips
along your forehead
  down your cheeks
  around the underside of yourchin
  and down your neck to yourcollar bones
so the steam and sea
provide an evaporating mask
of delight
  grounded in the weight
  of the ocean and eros
intertwined in proportional balance
that rhymes with the balance
we keep seeking to maintain
  by inhaling each other’sbreath
  and soul.

and oh, will the dawn
nod and smirk
at our adrenaline-rich
undroopy eyes.
nod indeed.

Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley
09.07.02, 900-930pm