astorian arabesque

three am, blind from
rearview headlights, and your
fingers on my
knee. some mountain road
somewhere, we became low-set clouds
steaming in our curiosity and
breathing with the trees
screaming 'i am alive!
i am
so

alive!' commanding gaze,
frothy plams,
life spilling down our
arms; lover
with a thousand fingers
(hundreds of
hands) render silence
beneath mossy skin, evidence of
spring's still aging
remains (and whispers of
noctournal birth). your
voice, low velvet hum in the front of my
ears, reaching through canals-
lips to brainstem, the
dynamism of youthful euphoria.
presence is thick
this predawn,
wandersoaked tiremarks,
layers of reclining bare bodies
locked in
black asphalt embrace
along the motorway. we are
reaching;
growth fabricating
before our eyes_