The driving force

It occurs, as I turn in the bed
As the threads paint themselves on me

That the curl of my toes
Is for you, by you and yet
They let me strike at the ground

As I span the wet morning alone

That the bends of my spine
Are in time for you, a lazy arc of the baton, and
Yet they groan and crack as I push
Creak up, draw up,

Out of the sea.

She’s a strong one, of good wood.

And my chest sits upon the home
Of curves we have made, flustered lovingly made
A venture joined, and yet unjoined
All wrapped by my straining smooth muscle, smooth skin
Only mine

And these lips, all fluffed with cooing compliments
And the bite of nice white teeth
Are mine to spill a flood out of
Are mine to cascade all the ways that I am from
Are yours to hold, sometimes
Are mine.