My hand locks into yours
the same way I taste under my tongue,
parted and warm,
humming while your lips press

with quiet insistence against your heart.
I crawl inside its steady beat,
(just the summer,
sloping hills and white stucco)

lying between the hours,
your forearms tense with habit.
The white Jetta's
an uneven cavalcade of

windows rolled down, my thighs
melt bare, and
the sun burns slow and thorough
through dusk.
The tide pulls away
the thick New England sky.