contour map of abstractions

what is this
that coats all
my surfaces like
the smell of aging summer
in an evening
frisked by bees promenading
in the heatfolded cat
mint and decided by
a new moon to be a
seedbearer for the
thickening night sky there
is no romance
in this love but a
generosity of lust that
the force of life
drives through our
parameters resting between
heartbeats to allow us
to catch our
breath but slamming in
again before the Ego has
time (only the Ego has time) to think
of a new excuse
to not be the tawnycrust
grasses or sharpetched
hills or the neverending
skies or, least of all,
the rain forming its
contour map of

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