(After Cyril Wong)

I didn't intend to write about sex.
Yet I could write about the brown dots
on your body, how they scatter on
a white canvas ready to be traced,
back to front, one by one, by my finger
and miraculously everything's illuminated:
this is a magnificent star map
of an unknown universe we might ride
a space shuttle and visit one hot Summer
evening posthumously. I could write
about the fine wrinkles on your face:
they speak of accumulated wisdom and bygone
years and exquisite experience; when they
are buried in my breasts, protruding nipples
brown and hard, or my open legs,
your wrinkles are not shy, they are masculine,
irresistible and I forget about many things:
what wisdom? what age? what experience?
I only remember this flesh and yours,
desire gracefully walks in and I'm wet.