Generation after generation
we have gone down.
My father, the flight instructor,
warned me early
about Bermudas, thighs
that scissor away hope.
He never mentioned summer,
the danger of dogs in the park,
her black labrador.

The leash threw me off course,
her fingers on my biceps
a caress of apologies.
I had to drop the radio controls
on the bench to ask her out.
My miniature plane
crashing into the calm pond
water-sprayed the end
of my aerobatic days.

In pension now,
my hands tremble
over curves. I travel nightly
south of her stomach,
feel the suction of her labial
vibrations. Again and again,
my tongue breaks down, disappears
into that triangle of no return.