Your hand ring heavy against me.
Thigh high, sumptuous endeavor.
We will see tomorrow how your masculine touches mine,
charged particles left to vague.
We seed,
sow two streets with the same name in different boroughs,
sing caramel songs that refuse to liquid.

You are a sinkhole of wonder.
I lie down with you and let it happen,
like conversation, like lyes, burning good.

Be gracious now and wait.

We are a successful series.
You are legs that end in true ankles,
sheer mouth, wrists I hold and lead.
Lend me your delivery, how you move your hands.
Your happiness. Mine.
An unmatched opposition. A pair, approved,
tenderness of color.
Your hair beneath your neck,
an elegant expression—mouth open some, softened, let go,
your eyes unafraid at night and in silent light,
unblinking broken,
a horse in the wild at dusk eating grass,
ten, twelve, fifteen, me.

Cathy Halley is the Editor in Chief of JSTOR Daily. Her work has appeared in Pocket Myths and poetryfoundation.org.