every now is fast behind us, and then
the luxury, excruciating as it might be
of years of examination, what we should

have said, done, oh.

Over his shoulder, the ceiling fascinates me
as does the window's glare where dog nose smudges
remind me we are all voyeurs.

I picture us from various theres, the doorway,
the spider's dusty web in the faux ficus

me my, mo micus--

I wrap my legs even more tightly, a non-verbal "yes"
taste effort on his neck, my salt-lick, mine.

Inside, where we are born, tingles triangulate.
But not yet, I am slow.

I think of a man I loved before, how I crooned
loveyou,loveyou,loveyou

Hundreds, thousands, maybe more.

I have learned silence, how to swallow the words
remembering one very weary "Yes, I know"

Ah, it comes, galloping and wordless from where it lives.