I am still remembering the white geography,
the procelain country of your skin.
I never saw such milk before,
poured out all across the bed,
poured out in the form of long limbs
lain across me, stretched over comforter and pillow,
hot with life and desire and the place,
black as the pit,
where you stored your sex,
red sex,
pink sex,
rising out of vulcan blackness,
out of hair darker,
curlier than mine and
your mouth on mine, and your rough hands, unlotioned,
forgotten, untendered, calloused with music running
over me, a ragged softness, the softness of mouths
demanded, the softness
of the surprise entry into me.
Surely that was the strangest country,
surely your coming into me, my coming
into you, the gasp, the pour, the heat,
the liquid heat, the honey of a man was the miracle.
You know I journeyed through monasteries
and all the way to lourdes for a miracle,
good lord, I found it here with you, in you, pulsing.