More

I disengage and dismount
from your body, your thighs-
soft and pliant
under my desiring thrust.

I drift to the other corner
of the bed, bated breath
waiting for your leg
to fall over my leg.

Seize this moment, seize this night,
and ruffle it enough
till words emerge
from the vortex

trees shaken loose of
birds and leaves,
confetti sparkling all around
us, and covering our feet.

This is what poems are made of.
This is what poems are for.

The agitation- momentary, transient,
made extraordinary,
like the seconds before orgasm
followed by the release.

Then the waves reach the shore.
There will always be more.