I like to find the hairless spots on my lover’s body.

As we lie parallel as an equals sign,

 I search. I knead the expanse of nape

to shoulder like fresh dough, moulding.

Across his back, my hand passes by

 the island of fine hair 

(shaped like a butterfly or is it a bow?)

and turns to raft, gliding 

the silk ocean surrounding its shores.

My mouth seeks out the twin valleys

east and west of his widow’s peak 

and swims 

the twin pools welling from his beard,

oases in thick brush.

It brings my world to order, this finding

 of smooth amid the rough.