About that time, when summer starts seepin' into the trees, one little svelte boy gets his body shakin', hips twitchin' and archin' up toward the sky.  Shoulders fold back, lazily standing at attention, and his ankles firm and muscle, preparing for the daily trek, moving like a salmon to the brood, to where his body meets an inertia ending thud into the caves and grottoes of his lover's majesty.  It is there, underneath stalactites and, where our boys simmering Southern blood just pulls the sweet-talk right outta him, his tongue twirls and flexes out verbs and nouns that suggest a little deviance, hip swivel dance steps three-four rhythms and legs bend and shake.  Benevolent dreamscapes of sunshine and flesh cloud little areas of reason and logic, furthering flirty ability to make lust into something much more exciting and suddenly an immaculate light emits across the living room, lighting tiny particles of skin and hair that fell off without declaration or struggle.  Breath is heavy and so is desire, but both have become the point.  Instinct is about finding pleasure points, now, and showing off is not to impress, but slowly covers the canvas with acrylic, pale green and sharp reds, the kind you see in a kool-aid jug from a family fridge.
Everything the finger does, from here on out, decides what the mouth will do in two or three moments.  Blind silk-worms wriggling down the side of a peach, stumbling through a jungle, caressing the cotton sheets.  Nothing quite calm enough to keep my toes from curling.  Misplaced hairs bother moistened lips.  No mountain left to climb, no river yet to ford.  Only thing left to save is grace, which can be found glowing in the warmest of sun-rooms, lazily sprawled out and tangled up in each other's legs.  Sigh, coo, giggle, kiss, repeat.