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Hot Springs

The warmth of sulfur springs wafts from your towel.
The silk of black, magnetic rocks crawls under my fingers
when I touch the back of your neck, and you the nape of my throat
where the pulse of “Love Life” carved on the boulder still ring.
As the melody of the words spoken underwater
the pious touch of my feet on your chest
and the candlelit ruckus all around us
dissolves you into plasma,
melts me back into spring.
Still, unclothed you smell sweet, as from afar, or below
the moon shining through iron-willed curtains,
then to waste you lay barren souls, and let the old
skin erode and the youth erupt.

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February 2011

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