Interval

All day the purple battle of love

as scented mouths position

soft fields of contesting langour

or jealous peaks of suspicion.

All day the trumpeting of fingers,

the endless march of desire

across the continent of an eyelid

or the desert of a hair.

How long we roam these territories

trailing our twin successes,

till the bending sun collapses

and I escape your kisses.

Then I drink the night like a coconut

and earth regains its shape;

at last the eunuch’s neutral dream

and the beardless touch of sleep.