The Gulf of Mexico

I am in bed with you. And, as if the wind
had been responsible, your shirt is drawn up
into the latitude of your hair,
traversing the bends of your shoulders,
the way a river coils into a waterfall.
I rub your back.
It cools, then warms again,
as though I were testing, with my hands,
a bath I was heating up for you.
I do not like baths.
After rinsing, what’s next
for the boy who’s fallen in a puddle,
penis nodding, conceding its stranded state,
a delicate frog perching
on a water lily.
I’ve tried to
take along Scientific American or
navigate the chapters of Moby Dick,
but the dream’s always better than
the real thing.
That’s fine.
Right now, it’s good to rub your back,
feel the narrows of your muscles shift,
reach the islands of sleep,
to warm under the ballast
of your head, pillowing my thigh,
and your breathing
that is tropical across my legs,
and up into
my Gulf of Mexico.

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