Sex is not
one-to-one,
gender to desire.
It is fine, red dust,
the windowsill
wordless,
fragrant with heat.
Our bodies begging
redemption, fingers
moving to eyes,
shell-white, rolled
back. Bedding, a cold relief.
We fall undone—leaf unpinned,
an opening
at the root.
Morning will come with its terrible
teeth, our outline
traced in sweat.