Evaporate

Making love to sailors is easy. All they want to do is talk about the ocean.
They let their hands do the talking, let their teeth do the chattering.

I wish I was made of smoke. Disappear into your lungs, or your hair.
Little rings around your tongue, just for the hell of it, just for fun.

I wish you were made of silver, trade you in for some wheat.
Something to eat.

I wish I would awaken, from this hilarious dream
From this hibernation, from this pathetic scene.

Making love to a woman is easy. All they want to talk about is the weather.
Or whether or not the leaves will wither.

And bury us like last summer.
Under everything that has yet to happen.