It is not the walk we love,

not the burn of feet and thighs

or how the back tells us

when it is time to sit, rest,

look around and count the alphabet

in foliage. It is not the calmness

of the cigarette break or the promise

of improved endurance in future

lovemaking, not even the fantasy

of a keg turning into an abdominal

six-pack. No, it is the experience

of sweat on the brow, down

the crease between the shoulderblades.

The feeling of water that emerges

from the flame, salty and sweet

and sexy when licked from the neck.