Flash Flood

(More desert rain here.)

Here in the desert
We often miss storms.
They thunder and pour
up in the mountains.
But down here
in a little while,
for a little while,
the arroyos will run.

Here in the desert
we take the long view.
A rainstorm up in the mountains
is not the end of drought.
But when you smell the rain
for a little while
you suck it into your lungs
and feel it wash into your blood,
tear at the banks of your veins,
overflow your heart.

Out of nowhere
a girl kissed my mouth.
Reckless, it shocked us both.
We stared for a little while
and I breathed the scent of her
before she hurried off,
while arroyos ran
and tore at their banks
and hidden things sprouted green.

Just Enough

She's stretched out on her tummy corner-to-corner across our bed under the slow-turning fan, arms reaching out above her head, legs apart just enough for mine to fit between, hips lifted just enough to receive me. I cover her body with mine, rigid cock pulsing in her warm wetness, chest against her back, face buried in her hair, kissing her hair, her ears, her cheek, her neck. We breathe together, urgent whispers of love and heat. We move together, just enough to know we're moving, succulent curvy flesh of her ass against my hipbones. My arms stretch up alongside hers, our hands palm-to-palm, fingers twine. As we fuck, as passion overtakes us and takes us, the sweetest, hottest thing: Her hands clasp mine tighter, tighter...

She Slows Him Down

"I've got to go! Kiss me--fast!" he whispered intensely as he frenzied into his clothes. "No," she said simply, but no less intensely, her voice low and calm like a raven's iridescent feather stroked across his hearing. She took his face in her hands, her touch gentle and calm too, and he felt the hurry leave him like a fever breaking. She gave him that kiss, but slow, long, lingering, and pulled him back into their bed under the slow-turning fan.

Aw, c'mon

Don't you hide those legs from me.
A story you haven't written for me yet
is coded there on imagined skin,
and I am going to read it now.
Bristle of razor-neglect,
mosquito-bite bumps,
sock tan tell me of
preoccupations, distractions,
things that mattered more to you
than sun blaze, bugginess,
my hand running sly under your skirt:
What got a hold on you.
Where your mind was.
What I love about you.