From the Fishouse

a hound in sweat, I stalk a trail purposefully left,
the rolled cotton sausage of your tampon on the floor
at my convincing. If this continues a month or more,
we’ll both be sticky in it: when the smell and chemical
of us wracks our bodies with the same tide internal.
I do not have to be as close as this (enough to peer
into the pink and moan of you, scalloped sails unfurling);
it could be an office, cell or palace; anywhere the scent
of lunar memory’s corporeal time shivers. Even through
its most deprived, the pattern link delivers a syncopated
offering, the promise of your blood and ova swimming true
with mine, the bath and wine men mimic in gods’ houses.
Unbidden, this body strips clean for next season, prints
the pillows with carmine fingers, marks time with brine
and rust, sinks through the rippling mouth desire trusts.