Some days the dough
takes on the humid
sheen of your shoulders
and my hands ache, trapped
air sighing and catching
as I work the back
of your thighs, your buttocks,
again, feeling them
slacken and firm.
Then driving the dough
back into itself,
I fold and turn, press
against and away,
drawing out the raised
warmth of your hips,
the wedge of your pelvis
beneath my cupped palms,
remembering
pliancy, the guiding
slip of your hands
over mine.
Beating down what becomes
our bread, I think today
of that logger diving
with a mouthful of air
toward his pinned friend
who laughs and drowns
balking at the intended
kiss, how we keep
to ourselves, wrestling
the diffused weight
of a world, our own
held breath.