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Friction
A night of jackhammer sex in the bathroom
Prefers his boys asleep in leather
When he comes a vein between the eyes
To weep for every pretense toward coupling
The last round of lovers left him raw
All the friction of a space so small
Dawn when it hits splits the sonnet in two
Overture
Her first orgasm seemed a miracle
to her and to the one bent at her crotch
but soon unveiled itself as obstacle
or hurdle: a force, of sorts, to circle and watch.
Like a wary climber, the lover
— the licker, lapper, sucker, fister —
crept to the spot, content to hover
before the big venture, then moved, then moved faster,
much to the lover's — the licked, lapped,
sucked, fisted — pleasure, until the crossing
announced itself in vowels wrapped
soundly around her tongue.
This overture, like any blessing
or blazon, has raised the temperature of her expectations
somewhere beyond reason and miracle's manifestations.
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