I sing the body electric
in ways we never imagined.
You, beneath, or above,
we breath air to cool our skin.

My soul electric,
i have always wondered
on stopping time,
in gasping moments
recording thought or in
photographic memory.

My images could never do this justice.

Here, are rumpled sheets, ash,
cigarettes, used up and worn out,
dirty dishes and filtering sunlight.

Here is broken skin and
narcissistic reactions,
teeth marks and trails left behind.

We are electric like the dawn,
endless, moving, sharp
and ethereal.

Walt Whitman preferred men,
but I prefer the taste of you.