photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando Taborda
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If something moves, then time is also bending.
It is stirring in the hidden shafts of hair follicles
standing on end, in the pliant open of spine, disc by disc.

It makes space in the slinks and shifts of small caught breaths,
the in and the out of breast and chest. It stretches communion
in the dilation of a pupil, the rub of lips, the deepening thrust of hips.

To hold this rhythm of accord and live this exhaustion, to arrest
the gone of a moment in this petit mort of limbs, we become all
things that move - lava, waterfall, glacier, the wind, a pulse.

Sex returns us to what science can't measure, a big bang
beginning time, light passing through our bodies and, we moan.

by Dzyfa BENSON, at "Poetry Review", Volume 102:4 Winter 2012, The Poetry Society