To lick between each
of your toes, and chew
crunchy grains of sand,

to pick the purple
lint from your belly
button and rub it
on my gums.

To bury my head
in the hairy pit
of your arm, and make
a nest for the night
like a little
weaver bird.

To let you spit in
my mouth and gulp it
down like water—fresh
from a mountain spring,
the kind with glass
translucent fish.

To dig out your earwax
with the tip of my pinky
and sculpt a bust
of your perfect
Roman nose.

To wear your hair
like a coat to the
Viennese ball,
and spin spin spin.

Woe the days I thought we had time—
that I could make love to every bit of you.