I tilt her gently upward
with my fingertips, guiding
not demanding;
first, eyes to my eyes. And I linger, there
drinking in the wanting shine
of her irises. Then my lips
find hers; the threads between us
are pulled taut now, drawing
   her into me, me
       into her.

The space is not a canyon, or
a vast desert plain.
It is a creakbed highway
trickling water from one end to the other
in alternating currents.  I can cross
instantaneous
on paper, in a dream
and I lean close enough for her
to feel my heartbeat.

My mouth parts slightly, a suggestion
that she belongs in my arms.

And the river rages on,
in both directions.