They span a broad
torso like a trifecta
of mountains: Left,
Center, and Right

The Center Peak
is covered in thick
waves of brown
that swirls like the thick
vapors of Jupiter

The left and right
peaks
are twins from afar,
but up close they
are as different
as the eyes or ears or
hands or feet

The oasis of clavicles
adorn the base of
Center. Waterfalls
cascade from the rivers
mouth and through fleshy
arms

The Three Peaks
of the shoulders
stand proud like
the fleshy florets
of broccoli

His mouth
is the place
I look
after I look
at his eyes.  His mouth
shapes words; winks; lies
and admits.  His mouth
shields teeth: a pair
of white ivory piano
boards, the top treble
and the bottom bass
cause a voice
of harmony; of angels
and devils; of promises
and lies; of laughter
and agony.
His mouth
is the harbor
for his tongue; laying
softly in the shell
it waits for my lips
to open the compact,
to slowly knock
on his wet lips
teasing them apart and
waiting for the incumbent
to answer my curiosity.
His mouth
is what I look at
when I can no longer
watch the truth
in his eyes.

His throat is long
like an egret’s, elegant
as a bride’s dress,
and sits squarely
atop his torso
like a pillar
candle.

His throat meets
his strong jaw, a pair
of triangles
that flair afar
from his pointed
chin which mirrors
the length of his nose.

His throat is lithe
and sinewy and
soft even though
its core is strands
of muscle like garland
wrapped around the Christmas
tree of discs and cartilage.

His throat is a target
for the sky jumper of kisses
which land atop the softness
of his skin.
My kisses, like planted bulbs
drawn down to the pools
of his clavicle.

His throat is my envy.