Bearings

 

I live in a damp house

with slime ankle deep from the door.

You come and go, a man

not really cut out to farm,

but tolerant of my mania

enough to take your bearings 

on my lips. The taste familiar,

 

we adjourn to bed.

 

It has to be ourselves;

the sum and total

of our faith in living.

The feeling different

every time we touch.

Like children newly come to life,

mouths defy all figures of speech.

Our bodies, beyond us,

go deeper.