Today the two of us wake early
while children and visitors sleep.
We borrow their yellow trail bike and hum
across the peninsula in a soft down of rain,
making our own breeze as we ride
through the still air, brushing against the
glint and glide of coastal heath.
I lean against the drenched curve of your spine,
your heat radiates like steam rising
from the earth after summer rain.
Moisture tracks the channels of my neck
in tiny streams, pools around my throat
and flows between my breasts,
a river across the continent of my belly.
We head to the cliff line, to the edge:
the terrain of our love, where air catches
my throat at the closeness of that sheer plunge.
One slip or sudden turn and our golden bird
will fly across the dawn sky
in one immutable arc of light
before the world is drowned again