With your thigh against mine,
hardly even touching,
but just resting, nonchalant,
against mine- and all the world,
the spinning universe,
in the barely-there press
of your thigh...

and where your forearm
sometimes rested against mine-
the brush of your hairs
just crushing lightly
against mine-
and all the stars and the planets
colliding and slipsliding...

my heart thumping skin burning,
galumphing and electrified;
my churning heart chugging like a boiler
way out bush
late into the night
the day your thigh
rested, divested of thought, against mine...

trapped in a swoon of take-me-real-soon,
I'm drugged on this lust,
my skin sunstruck head dizzy with wanting...

out thighs touching,
arcing across,
like powerlines gone crazy
in the thrash of a thunderstorm-
the whipping licorice-rope lines
not even touching
but the blue-bottle spill
arcing dangerously
to the other
and across the pitch sky...

barely touching,
but sparks of blue-white
forking the sticky black night,
illuminating the arched yellow throats
of the willows underneath
scorching the sweaty incense of eucalypts
with the weird wild build-up
of the dry-tongued storm...

the lead stink of electrocution in the air-
the tang of murder,
a whiff of a blunt tree-stump smouldering
somewhere...
the sweet dusty sniff of lightning
above the bush,
the crackle of static lifting hair
in the sudden hush...

arcing across from one line to the next...
the smell of burning
mixed with the sweet, insane promise
of the plodding and pelt of oncoming rain...

and, at last...
we are mesmerized by the sound of fat drops
that we smelt splatting on the road,
small meteorites of cool,
coming closer,
like a rattling clatter of cool arriving,
driving home on the crackling tarpaper air...