Body hair browned by the currents of horizon,
desert sand hue- to deep tree trunk brown;
olive fruit became of your flesh,
your flesh, an articulation of the sun.
I--will be the gentle, wet moon
that pulls and pushes ocean waves,
that inspires gravity to fold night stream
into your day’s golden gleam,
desert inseam. Your body hair is like desert sand,
an endless spectrum of browns—
raw almonds, roasted cashew traced,
one part innocent the other dry haste
with minor black burns dried up by the salt
past moons could not properly use,
move waves far enough to absorb
your sunlight from which sea floor plants continue to grow.