On the Nose

You come home late from some thing in Toronto
and like a boat into water slip into bed.
You are my keel -- the true weight
that rolls me from rocking sleep
to your deep harbour. My slip,
I think, and half-awake and blushing turn
to you. Our heads clunk.
I wish I could say they struck
true as a gong, the note
that rings the skin, but it was just
two klutzes, two skulls striking. Seven years
and still always an extra arm in the embrace, a leg
in sex we don't know how to manage. Still
a tangle of juice and salt and half-made
gestures. For example, now --
to return to keels -- my flushed and fumbling kiss
lands true on the hot length
of your nose.