The seasons cross our bodies
the years drawing the Venetian blinds
as we are so limp and dense like the smog
since mornings till the sloth, winter
our groins hard and moaning
as crashes happen as the breakers resist
the whiteness of our beaches
surging toward the serenity of shrieks
and silences of lush summer fruits
and the succour scooped out
and ravished
from our jewelry, our grapes purple and
rusting as the winter birds cry back home
wistfully as if we are making love,
showing off our spasms to our worlds
and to one another
gasping our bemoaning tides
riding tigers
as if the birds are flying
our enraptured flights