It’s like making love to Marilyn Monroe
in nocturnal swimming pools
of tastelessly decorated American hotels.
“They’re all these filthy people of good taste.”
It’s the sun beating down on a face,
its rays—these soft melodic pulsings—little exclamations
hitting the atmosphere of our bodies, of our faces . . .
Rain down on us.
Come in these tides of this playful God,
like jet planes.
I didn’t know you
were human . . . like leaves of grass
in their resplendent vanity—
come into their release.
Like kind astronauts’
clear and careful warnings.