my mouth and chin are overpinked
from a close reconnaissance
of your timelapse adolescence.

and the cat’s tongue is outdone
by your peppered skin,
the suede stage, post salamander.

i watch you dressing slowly.
soon you will be no more naked
than i am.

your mouth something electric,
leyden jar, van de graaf,
a generator waiting.

small lightning arcs, sparks,
as your tongue grounds through me
and scorch marks trace its path

safer licking powerlines,
quicker sticking housekeys in sockets.

expected electrocution,
got defibrillation.
who knew my heart had stopped.

i’m bad at waiting -
i can only wait
for one thing at a time

it’s you i’m waiting,
like a chick in an egg,
junior feathers slicked,

cramped in the dark,
nose to knees and
heels to buttocks,

arms folded where they fit,
my cheek pressed
to the shell

which is the days
between us
slowly thinning,

opaque to the last
moment, when i see
you in the distance.

it’s slow time
flatline for that other heart,
not the pump, but the pilot.
not the pilot, the navigator.
not the navigator, the cartographer.
not the cartographer, the surveyor.
not the surveyor, the explorer.
not the explorer, the dreamer,
that other heart.