Larry D. Griffin
When I place my hand in the small of your back,
you tremble toward me in embrace
with fingers fondling finding
my hair until hard against my buckle,
I long so long it seems for what you lack,
what you alone can give me through your grace,
a gift I find at first so kind
before lust sends sympathetic chuckle:
you smile back in your green eyes.
We separate only to strip
and in the trusting pull of crying moans
make each ourselves of one another those
entrances out of self into one hum
of all we are, we become, when we come.