Pachamama

The sea rubbed the cliff like a clit,

a huge wet hand of salt and desire,

set on pleasuring the black rocks

of the shore's crotch.

Bees and birds roll over flowers,

dressing themselves in pollen,

plant's semen, participating unknowingly

in the great bukkake of vegetative fecundation.

Nature is charged with sexuality.

That at least is true.

But unlike humans, nature never

had degenerates, eunuchs

nor Megan's law.

I'm sick in awe of all this.

The world is fucking all around us,

treating eroticism as the most

simple and purest of all things.

I bet that if the Everest cannonballed

inside the Grand Canyon, splashing

foamy waters all over the tourists,

we would laugh at it marveled: happy.

Back home wives are tired,

rock-hard erections ignored.

She's disgusted by her husband.

He wants a divorce. He's not in love.

Outside of the room an owl hoots.

Nature knows.