Emerge from a fan of sheets; azurelaid, china clay and rice paper,
spine broke and beautifully worn
with my hand spread in the rich curve of your back;
pressing you down, stretching, folding you close
as if this were the end of the world.
Fingers, laced together like clever roots,
one being; tall, naked, wrapped in ourself.
In the quiet you cling to me; like Ipomoea
you feed me Sweet Potato and Water Spinach
and I suck wine from your lips.
Drunk, we lapse back into the leaves,
bruising them red with our footprints
so we will always find our way back
to the beginning.