Too many days but not a lot of time
will pass before I hear your voice aloud,
before we soar beyond our prose or rhyme,
before your back is arched, my neck is bowed,
our hands are moving where they want to touch,
our lips and hips are finding perfect fit
and we connect. We cannot want so much
and fail (entirely), renege or quit.

Your mouth will be my Ganymede; I’ll take
my nectar from your smile or your smirk.
We’ll fire you to move without a brake.
Our restless exercise will be no work.
So limber up, my heart, for 90 days –
our present then will vanquish all delays.