Here I am an island, and you are the sound 
of rain on the treetops and leaves on the ground.
I root myself slowly, my hands hungry knobs 
coming up through the sand in a series of throbs.
I push myself—standing, attention to specks 
of birds in their pleasure and bees in their sex.
Like honeyed retention, the warmest air clings 
to my skin, and your madness is turned into spring.
With winter behind us, we run through the hills 
of stomachs and hip bones ‘til we’ve had our fill 
of nectar and feathers and natural delight. 
Your body is blooming, and mine is just right 
for picking and pulling and kissing, and each 
new earthquake we feel is a plateau we reach. 
Now scaling the mountains of amplified gasps, 
breasts become handholds and lips become grasps, 
and we become something akin to a child— 
headlong, courageous, and smelling of wild.

(Source: poetcetera)