From the Other

What is small is smaller, suddenly.
Her shoulder, small, with my hand on it,
her ferociousness is something I can grip.
I am so hungry for anything. Blind.

With her breast on my chest, my blindness
finds its course, surging. She is what I am surging
towards, through, pushing in makes her beauty
fragment, disperse, hover.

Pushing freely now. The resistance
her body makes, it is the resistance
air makes for a wounded flyer.
Won't she take me in farther?