The last orgasm

Stars and people and daffodils won’t last forever.

Hands down, forever will succumb to a single sensation,

one last heaven, one last shudder     

lost voice carried over the winds of the body, the canyons

of the hands in a shower, snow or warm? Last ashes

of satisfaction dance above an open mouth, teeth like light

in an emptied room, the wet music of the tongue.

Somebody will find the edge to all of humanity’s joy, a flood,

a punctuation will flood her with its certainty,

or them, or us, all at once, and that lonely breach

will ripple through, on and out, with indefatigable atoms.

Those asking hands never to slow their speeding ship     

one last starry daffodil excess will blow its soft dunes,

that lost voice, back, over everything that ever came

before. Until emptied out. And if you slow, if you slowly reach

across your own body until you feel it, too, even now?

You can come to an end, even now. It lasts, wanting to.

Tobias Wray