he is blowing dust
sensually tickling- head
shoulders, knees and toes.
eastern summer heat
bartering breezes
with the west,
serving up gentle tornadoes
in exchange for
kisses.
like storm water
he has always been
here, then there
leaving,
to come back always ,
when the season
is right.
he is tempest,
but
i am no teapot
cannot contain his
passions, his whistling
steamy moments.
he breezes through
leaving me-
hot water marks across the lintel
of my back,
scalds on my sex.
when healed, i will
dream of him-
warm masseur rock hands,
touch myself,
linger
in the humidity of his memory.
