nooner

we have an hour, maybe less.
an hour to dive inside
      each other’s skin,
an hour to laugh and moan,
an hour to throw off blankets
      and imagined discretion,
an hour that’s both
      short and expansive,
      restrictive yet liberating,
      discrete not discreet,
an hour that now has only 58 minutes.

and with only 58 minutes,
one doesn’t stand on formality.
the clothes must come off.
i hop like a buffoon,
      wrestling a delinquent sock.
there are no awards
for showmanship, only results.

your hand is cold.
you hold my cock  
      like a drawer pull.
I grip the back of your neck
      like a cello.

striped muscle cells contract
and the distance between us closes.

still more than 55 minutes.
still more than enough time
to back you against the wall
      where warmth is palpable.
      skin is inevitable.
lips haved started to touch
in that easy face dance of
      dip and dart,
      move countermove.

perhaps this clock is internal.
we seem to know how much time
we have to kiss, know how many minutes remain
after letting you grind your wet desire
against my edgewise wrist,
riding the nub of bone
until my fingers drip.

and yes, there is a bed.
it is a fourth-dimensional wormhole.
there is no other possible explanation,
no other way for us to
      have had enough time
      to fuck so many ways.

no time left to shower.
you pee.
I pee.
we share a soapy washcloth,
          a towel, a mirror.
and with two minutes left,
there’s nothing left to do

except start to kiss again.