The dimples above your
behind are symmetrically placed,
disappear in the glare when you
move forward, are made dark when
you push back against me,
your behind flexing,
constricting, two opposing apostles
in epileptic orgy.
On the sand, on the sand, on the sand.
Where it all began,
and the place where I will end.
I can see her running,
I can see her joy--the sand.
In the surf, then out again,
sweatshirt clinging long and wet.
Ours, or our perception of it, then;
for hours and hours upon the sand,
our lives wonderful and without end.
Sometimes we have no time
and you open for me,
hard to get in.
I see you wince,
I take short steps,
intrusion that I am.
But once I am taken full for the measure,
once the beads of passion's pleasure
have slickened me in words and pricks,
you wince no more,
I lose the guilt,
we find the time to settle down.