Lovers dream of gardens, clutching at each other
in rusting cars, or leave the memory in bottles
of desire’s roots, to blunt the pain in passing pleasure.
We make our bed in the belly of a whale
who beached himself six centuries ago, his bones picked clean.
Rain falls through the gaps in his ribs on our kisses.
And we kick and we thunder and shudder and spark
against each other, water’s skin consuming bones of rock,
till we are spent, till there’s no joy or sorrow left
to talk in body of. We barely breathe. But lying here, I feel,
vague as the rainbow trying to appear in clearing clouds,
some hope as weak and real as flesh form deep inside me.