The Little Things Last There is no circuit to be found knuckle deep In my throat. Ion differential Thunder-crack caged in endless Loop of devotion. What impels that flow? Not the potential energy of lust As torrents scream downhill Pushing my being into a concentrated knot At the heart of my pelvis But the circlet of your arms — electric Crown of small moments in parallel; Working into tandem to feed that pulse Unending. The quiet work of love.