Words first.  
Small words, completing the day.
Something specific & kind, “Thanks
for cleaning my hair out of the bathtub,”
would do.   Words to draw our bodies 
closer, while feet or fingers casually intermingle
thumb-pad to thumb-nail, toe to instep.
No heat, yet, but courteous companionship
that gradually generates heat
until you perhaps, or I, slip off
the day.

A stirring might call to me
or you might feel compelled
to explore me like a field of wildflowers
the exploration slow and languorous
as a summer afternoon 
with nowhere particular to go.

Then, as afternoon dissolves to twilight, 
the trusted dynamos engage.
Engines deep in the body 
demanding touch
and more touch, 
oil and heat,
shifting through gears
disrupting the flower-strewn fields
blasting the summer afternoon
throwing up roadbeds and bridges
spanning chasms, forging 
and smelting, recreating 
the entire industrial revolution
clanging westward
smoking,
and ruthless,
and out of control.