Always you come at night.

Always soft and bearing roses

but never are they de-thorned.

They are redolent with sweetness,

those long-stemmed lovelies.

Never, you tell me, is the sweet

so good without the bitter.

So when my blood is sharply

drawn by your gift, soft

you take my finger and suck

until the throb stops,

blood clots and the pain

is just a memory of an

anticipation of your sweetness.

The way with you, a kiss

can segue so simply

into an all-out tug-of-war,

of love. A rough inner-

struggle for both control

and surrender, I fight

the blood-rush blush,

the giveaway pink cheeked

pout that tells you all

you need to know – to stop,

to go. You go.

A Yes to my No.

To my moi non plus,

you say a thousand je t’aimes

to the sighs and the moans,

to the guttural songbird,

the mourning dove’s coo,

the secret language of lovers

- known only to you.

It guides you along those

corridors where with

smooth palm you chart

out the territory,

as a mapmaker works

by lamplight.

You, you would dive

from the high-board.

Your olive-limned body

marking the fathoms,

deep, deeper as you go

seeking the one true pearl

refusing to emerge until

it is yours, given, offered,

until that non becomes a oui

and you have me,