There’s a poetry to the way we move, rhythms and music to the automatic motion of almost systematic devotion, endlessness craving end, aether craving substance, flight craving plummet only to repeat, as lips do what wings do best and soar, along currents of skin instead of wind, to dance then around planes of bone instead of steel — there’s a poetry to each lover, to me, to you — you are an ocean; feel waves — you are a galaxy; see stars — you are the pale flesh of the crescent moon and the slow burn of the incandescent sun, and I see your oceans and your galaxies —and you did not ask for poetry, but for coarse words to describe course of events, stage directions for a rising action to build to a climax, but I think if we seek something carnal it would not kill either of us to nod first to the mind, to where your dreams of rumpled sheets and thrumming heartbeats are born, and I think with your hands on my waist and your lips on my lips and the give and get of something so ancient and so fresh it would kill neither of us to think of dreams, and words, and the poetry of movement and the movement of poetry, as your lips murmur at last two words, you’re terrible, till I grin and drop to my knees and, feeling at last the coarseness of your carpet and the coursing of your blood in the thrum of your pulse, fingertips trailing along almost bare thighs, freshly licked lips smirking along almost flushed skin, I think poetry, I would murmur, is not so terrible a place to begin.