You have many names
and a weather of faces
changing under my labor

Your body
is the closest approach

Your openings
tunnels for vertigo arrivals,
mineshafts for tongues and thumbs
and the blood-driven pistons
of exploratory speleology

Genitals standing guard
like meerkats
or startled bitterns

Your body
a reception ritual without lace:
avant-garde physics under the moon

Straight into the root-flood

A docking port fit
for an orbital station

Panting prime position:
doggy or missionary, equally wet,
smacking contentedly in prosperity,
sweat glazing the conditions
of the act of love

Consent documents filed,
witnessed and pinned
along the walls.

Blonde On Blonde repeating
while purely Icelandic
geyser-ejaculations
groan the century
with extended docking windows

Not even the riders
of the apocalypse
ride harder

You are a tornado in the solar plexus.
The lower back sings

You thunder.
You rain

Your faces flicker in lightning
from the irresistible jihad
of the loins

Your body
is the closest approach.