He makes Foxe-noise in the satin sheets,
smelling of really good pipe tobacco-
the kind the grandfathers would smoke on a summer evening,
when the wind would blow down from their patios.
You'd never know from a surface glance
that his blood is the Sea,
fluid and unflappable.
The light slides over him,
catching edges of laughter,
sparkling gold and silver,
hinting the jewel blues of the deeps.
He shows me his jewel-side,
in the grass beneath our feet,
with lips that taste like brie and blackberries,
listening to my heartbeat
under sleeping roses.
the whoosh of the waters
beneath little Boy eyes and Carvaggio lips,
and the perfect chin I've claimed as mine.