From the intimate grotto of your ear

to the broad sweep of buttock is a finger walk

down the spine ridge to where

the tops are windswept but the clefts are bushy.

This archaeology’s best practiced

between experienced lovers. Your hipbone

is a gondola rowlock three quarters buried;

the body of the boat’s here too, its ribs

just below the surface. The sea once worked here,

but our dogfish days were done

with that first recapitulation,

the embryo’s uterine refrain.

I won’t dismember you my love,

so don’t include your innards in my inventory,

though I know your heart hides in there

And other wonders lurk in your cavities.

At every orifice I make my offerings.

The buried boat has sprouted

shining roots that plumb the dark

while the main stem reaches up

and spreads its crown beneath the skull vault.

Even now you’re voyaging

as boat and boatman with a pass of dreams

down to the red floor of being.

This wordplay makes me want to wake you

for a further course of sensual anatomy.