most mornings

despite the alarms,

sun peeking     through shades,

I roll over instead

to return to a desert

with a friend     on my back.

walk for miles over dunes, through canyons -

not even a hint of a shortness of breath,

or a thirst of the throat or the soul, or of sweat-

her hands brushing lightly the skin of my collar,

lips tickle the back of my neck.

she pulls close and I feel a slight swell in her breast

before whispers into my ear:

I need you here, I do

opt for long desert walks with a friend on my back,

hands touching my chest lips kissing my neck,

to a long desert day

not a trace of a breath,

or a thirst that is quenched

or of lips or of hands or of soul or of whispers

finding their way to my ear,

to assure that I am needed here.