“I want to touch his eyes,” she said,
“I mean the skin around them,
those heavy smudges under his eyes.
I want to touch them with my tongue.”
There’s a sport: longing.
It contains its own distance.
Gulf filled with water, black, bruised
and cold. Water to swim in.
Devouring water, it’s what
her heart has been pumping in place of blood.
This is a pleasure trip,
this drowning. But she has known
even greater pleasure.