XXOO

XX, OO, and then you're gone,
As ever on the run; but I
Am like that ever-earnest John,
Incomprehensibly alive,
Entrenched where dead and quick now lie,
Who parses syllables of breath
You spoke as though he would survive,
The mere exigencies of death.

I ponder if this double X
Decisively selects my kiss,
My lips, to know the mouth your sex,
Since fatal Juliette, has promised.
Or could this be your mark? Your brash,
Illiterate surrendering
Of sun-warmed hills and valleys lush
To claims of my imagining?

Your arms that twice encircle me,
Embrace as you depart, impress
Your crush of breasts, a memory
To clothe my need, my nakedness
Indecent as a gentle death
Without protest. This double O
Promises to hold me--your breath
Deny what reason can but know.

Extremity, should it reply,
Would cry, “I X your B, your B,
Unmercifully; before I die.
My O, enfolds you, pressed to me,
Forces your breath, thighs. Delicious,
Your parted V becomes mere P,
And yet, it is your X I miss,
Though B and P be ecstasy.