Our mouths are oysters,
pearls growing inside
as quickly as they can drop from our lips,

catching on our clavicles,
nestling in our navels,
pooling in the gully where we join,
studding our sexes 
sweetly as currants in a cake,
richly as jewels encrusting
a crown or a relic.

We arc against one another
like tangling stalagmites.
We make a grotto 
filled with such
dripping extravagance.

The passage is narrow,
but we are swift
silver fishcreatures, streaking,
flicking slippery slick & silken
bubble-baubled fingerfins 
along the louvering quiver
of opening shells.
We reach the mouth,

and I
am a waterfall,
plummeting,
plunging deep,
exploding hard,
swirling mindless, scattering breathless spume,

and you
are a shuddering precipice,
your knees are mountains,
crushing tectonic, crumbling
around me, a howling
apocalypse of triumph,
raining rock and sand,

endless grains of sand.
Each one will become a pearl.