I’m liking this thing called sex, the way my spine
roots me to the bedclothes; my DNA tingles
into my ecstatic shoulders, the branches
of my arms to my fingertips—thought
dissolves—delicious oblivion. I float, a girl again,
maybe a boy. Under my goosebump flesh
all splayed ringlets—I elevate, scrumptious.

Crucified between cloud-drift and gravity, 
I go the distance; a cry arcs full-bodied,
unrhymed from the shivers at my foot, by way
of my hummingbird heart. Coy in my birthday suit,
I squeal and moan, ā, eeeeee, I, oh—you! 
the lit-up image of a fleeing angel—my wild
gratitude—this whirled world and I its Eye.