This “thing” – what is it?
I love like a hundred acre fire consuming old-growth spruce,
hot as an uncapped well emptying its petroleum belly after a dynamite blast.
Love squeezes the air from my lungs –
when he is not righthere it smolders rich and dark as smoking stubble
waiting for warm breath after the sulfur cools.
He’s an overwhelming roar parching the jungle that is me
fanning endless ache for the slaking rescue of his fingers then his mouth –
the cooling linear press of body segued to mine in steamy synchronicity;
the restless wont is quenched but incendiary still,
the phoenix glut of flame returns; consummation eludes us.
Paired tender tinder chafed to welcome combustion,
exploding sparks, banked embers in the winded dusk
displace sweet scent of flesh afire.