The Sentry

I came to you like a river
rolling over pebbles and dirt
worn through seasons of runoff
to a place it has made
to fit itself
exactly.

I came for your pale, indoor skin,
the blue luminescence of veins,
like ribbons of sky behind
the thinnest tissue of cloud.
I came to float through
those blue canals,
a hawk riding every variation of pressure
against the skin of that world.

I came to see my reflection
In your clear, river face,
face that reflects the nature
of each beast that drinks.

So when I drew you close,
when I licked the sweat
from the curve of your vertebra
and I said the river was the tongue of God,
you laughed. I should stop, you said,
trying to see you as a body of water.
Journey and longing.
Confusing nature and sex.
I was drawn, like Kurtz,
to the pungency of decay.
To the source.
Hoping to slip past
the shark that circles my heart
But he is a creature of perfect instinct.
Time rides the shadow of his wake
unnoticed as the remora.
Everything is prey to him.
And like you, he does not fear
the dark places.
He knew the secrets of the moon
before the ebb and flood
of the first tide.
He knows no distinction between motive and dinner,
and does not remember the kisses
that tasted of lavender
and frangipani.