Surrender is your head
on my shoulder, fingers
tracing through the tangles
in your hair, my cheek
against your head.
It is in your eyes,
maybe even as a plea.
Surrender sprouts from words,
from tiny gestures.
It lands in your settling
more and more against me,
as your breath become gentle waves;
in the energy waves of your back;
in the way you allow
my enclosure.
Then it has escaped for now.
Perhaps, soon, we will open again
the fence that allows it
to enter and run freely,
howling at the moon.
Slut of the Cloth 
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