somebody suggest a title

Her fountain hair jets and wafts,

and loose, showers, as snug as gloves;

shutter lids block drafts;

within stained glass, wishes flutter, like doves.

Her jawline, a mug, warms my own hand and lips,

while the other sits on saucer sternum, sneaks

to thrum on tummy as if tickling an eclipse.

The whole frame can be held, is as slight as squeaks.

Our fingers, having woven like wicker vines,

or bamboo ankles, tangled over cotton-soil socks.

Knee-backs' puny deserts bear sculpted art of dune lines.

Metronome pores dole out rivulets in unison, like clocks.

Arms wrap like rope stretched from fore to aft

but dont fray, and keep us buoyant on mattresses, watercraft.