I regarded you like the sex
I had not smelled in lifetimes

I would not say something cliched such as
“the space between your legs is a temple” but it is

the brim of a big hat on a woman

the silent promise dangling from her hanging hips

the hem of her pencil skirt, the inner thigh leading all
the way…up

I would not say something cliched such as
“you exhale salvation” but,

the slow drip of your breath is benzedrine
for an old junkie looking for heaven in alleyways
studying the cracks between bricks,
searching for an hieroglyphic map home to eternal bliss,
to crawl into the tunnel of sweet forgiving
femoral artery nightcap fix

Your breath,

the ghost of mineral spirits still settling
to marble floors in the Sistine Chapel,
after centuries of diluting cadmium blue oils
and Michelangelo’s words only spoke in dust

I search the chasm between our sheets,
my heavenly legged cliche primed for a fix