Bill Wolak
DEEP INTO THE ERASURES OF NIGHT
Other hands will touch this warmth
where nothing is deeper than willing flesh.
Your kiss, open as water, dissolves into mine
and somehow secret maps
are exchanged in our nakedness.
Now loving makes a ladder
out of flesh and its scars,
and we climb deep into the erasures of night.
Other hands will touch this warmth
when before surrendering to sleep
a caress still stalks beyond exhaustion
the enticing pinks in which rain
sleeps after lovemaking.
CHARTING THE NYMPHOLEPTIC CONSTELLATIONS
Because you urge a keyhole
of my sperm
to follow you deeper
than fire smiling at wood
into the shifting densities
of an embrace,
only your flesh
can warm up this night
which is disappearing
into its own scars.
While you are sleeping,
your eyes rise out of your body
and become eggs dreaming
inside a bird as it flies.
Awake, you cut the oceans
out of all my maps
to quench my insatiable thirst
of sand that has never been wet.
Tomorrow all the darkness
that stars erase
your absence will return to me.