Genesis of our Sexual Predilection

In that moment,
I am her willing prisoner.
my whole body,
between those fingers
that fervently reach for mine.

I am spinning, soaring,
winged and warm,
beating, flashing, frantic fluttering,
of hummingbirds at dawn.
The world meanwhile,
like honeyed spice,
golden, glittering stained glass hues,
reflecting ice.
A rush of blood to the head

For me,
this simple touch –
is as lovers do,
when their limbs drape,
and shape each other.
As we walk our worship,
this public attraction -
two tired children,
who at long last
are free.

The streets consider
their arcane dilemma -
To look away?
To shame?
Or to censure?

What care we,
Who are living
Our wonder years,
Of brown grass love
And song?
A narcotic dream
Of poppy fields,
Stretching toward the sky.

Our cheeks may blush
A scarlet red,
Spreading strawberry dusk.
But in the end,
We are seventeen.
Ever the optimists,
Invincible zealots -
A revolution in the making.