We meet
in a secret spot below the bridge at Bixby Creek.
The ocean air is stale with salt and sweat. The buckle on
your belt is hot from my flesh pressed
against, and I can feel your heavy breath
on my navel.
Like clockwork your hand is in my hair, we
have been here so many times before,
The dance is old, yet the place is new.
This is not an eighth wonder, but we chose it
as the place to make our penance
to the body of one another.
And when its over we lay side by side
pinky in the fore-finger, like
every other time.
The only sound is the flutter of blood
through vessels
and the torrent of cars along Route 1.
Just a normal night in Big Sur.