Drifting to Bottom

I settle into the bed of passive sex like a leaf descending to the bottom of a pond, all of me liquid, languid, slow, luminous, still.  Once I was tigerish, licking, biting, pouncing, growling, tumbling, arched, riding the springy ribcages and hips of lovers I could climb on.  Now I have sex as plants do, petals agape for pollen; as snails do, one sticky wet part sliding softly, infinitesimally across another.  I have sex like a body of water, breath making nipples rise like the crests of waves, creeks emptying into my shimmering state of awareness through crevices, gullies, hillside torrents.  Rocking against the coast, tide by tide. 

Now I am infinite earth, potent beyond all things and nearly motionless.  Sex is a bead of sweat, dew forming on the curve of a leaf, a thigh.   Sex is the quiver of grass on an almost windless day.  I am a bed of clay on which your fingers drum like rain, furrowed by your tongue, penetrated by roots that grow strong because of me.  

I am the sea anemone, exquisitely sensitive and anchored to rock.  My most delicate pink-tipped tentacles suck, clutch, cling to what touches them.   I change color, rose to maroon to violet, blush, glow, burn, circle and dance in the water, wrap myself all around what comes within my one inch reach, and never lift myself up from my stony bed.   I am held down by tired muscles, topped by my own fatigue, nerve endings tingling with sensations, too exhausted to move, lickable, liquid, languid, sinking into the slick, soft mud, coming down from above, drifting to bottom.