She finds him in arctic eyes,
in the primacy of salted skin
as it burns against hers in its natural rhythm;
there is hunger in those questing fingers,
in the vulpine grin,
simple in its desire
for pleasure without shame.
He is not afraid to scent and stalk,
to force her hands down under her
where she doesn't have to be clean,
where doing right has no momentum
as she may have her moment
to [stop] the pretense
that taking is wrong.
But what now of the woman?
Is it her life in the silver sheen
upon his fingers,
in a half-serious smile
beneath the tremor of a touch?
To be reduced to vulpine love,
to a veil of vanity
for a man whose eyes only light
when hers cannot see in the dark.