I’m here missing
the warm circulation
of your thoughts.
But I have to report
that my cock is heavy
with hot nostalgia.
Its destiny was to sleep
between orgasms, to drip
songs over your diaphanous
breasts. Even when the heat
is gone, the chimney’s last
strand of light will have
the flavor of a dream,
destined to become smoke
and whisper, yea far beyond
the annals of our desire.
Far beyond the flannel
blanket that kept us webbed
to a hymn of hums.

Contemporary Poetry