He knows the many ways that pleasure
announces itself, tinctures of it coursing on skin
like the little teeth of sun
just after emerging from sea. He knows
we are made of salt. He can name whatever is broken
by its contours: Starfish, shell, seaweed
and I imagine sand feels cherished
in the junctures of his toes. He likes tickling
the piano keys, or they like to be tickled by him,
their sharp sighs knocking from behind your eyelids.
He is a walking disturbance of dreams.
Connoisseur of coffee, he knows that the best espresso,
if it could be heard, would be a world-class Italian aria.
Did I tell you he loves massages, because so much begs for kneading?
Tense shoulders. Gooseflesh like a field of porcupines
huddling in the wind. The sight of a lover crying. He knows
even heartbreak can be exquisite, as is the ritual coming
and going of waves, the terror of the shore
when overwhelmed by something we call feeling.
He knows the only way to live is to sting.
