by Russell Bittner

I love to coït with you at dawn –
not to fuck and not to screw.
The one’s anathema to Pooh;
the other, a thing too many do –
that plenty would do better to eschew.

I love to coït with you at night –
eyes now seemingly contrite
as we dance beneath a spot of lunar light.
Pornography, you say, is a public tumble in the sheets,
a public spectacle of meats, grinding obvious.
Pornography, I say, is a none-too-gentle wrestle
of two bodies, both of which want not to be.

I love to coït with you mid-morning:
our tummies rumble full of eggs.
You, softer than the rain-splayed grass,
that mound of thyme between your legs
I tease; while climbing up my spine, your toes
like curled crampons snug to bones,
I beg: Come, higher still, and coil;
climb my back and rake me under.

But most of all,
I love to coït with you at lunch:
through a long and lusty moment
we stretch out into an hour,
while the world recedes, awash in self-applause.
All mistaken with itself, all enamored of the stealth
of its heist in crass crescendo,
on the rails of clickety-claque,

you and I absconding
with a lay out on the lawn,
or an antic in the attack,
or a schtupp behind the stack:

the deed is done – with nod to Donne – now back to dawn.


Russell Bittner lives and scribbles on a small island off the East Coast of the United States. The island is called ‘Long’ and his borough is called ‘Brooklyn.’ Some of his work ends up on the ‘Net or on the printed page; most of it ends up in the trash. “Collisions” stayed for a long time in his head – but eventually came spilling out in an effort to be rid of itself, if not of him.

© 2008 by Russell Bittner






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