Although everything always has everything to do with sex,
each time, this one thing
has more to do with the sway of tree shadows
contained in rectangle boxes of light --
reflections of the windows, yielding from the windows,
caught in a breeze on the white plaster walls of the room,
and although it is often true the male of a species
has the more colorful markings, here I am the brightest one
against the white sheets
back arching,
a rising whale throwing its form from the sea
turning rose, then scarlet, then peony -- light spreading across our
flesh
and the marvelous ability to be held by instinct.