pillow talk

pillow talk
by peter funk
If I sit still long enough like a tree
or a car with the battery stolen
a certain languid truth gathers like weed and moss:
while I love fucking, the sweet bruised plumb of wanting,
there is now a low desire vibrating in the blood;
it wants my mouth to forget your body
so we can get to the business of kissing
and sucking and tonguing the air
into the why and why not of our again and again,
solving our mysterious and inevitable reaching,
like the horizon made of earth and sky
we know never really touch though everyday they do.