You stood up in the fishing boat,
a silhouette against the sunset,
shirtless and damp,
your blond curls wet and tangled.
I couldn’t see anything of your face,
just the flash of your smile
and the twinkle in your eye
as you held up the trot line and grinned,
talking some bullshit …
it was always some bullshit, wasn’t it …
it sounded so good in your patois.
I handed you the bait and tracked a trickle of sweat
down your belly into your well-worn jeans
while you pretended not to notice,
but looked down my shirt in trade.
Warm water lapped at aluminum.
Somewhere a fish jumped and plopped.
Cicadas tuned up
and you started singing
some Cajun thing I couldn’t understand …
didn’t really need to …
we both knew it was your version of foreplay,
softening me for the quick cold hose shower we’d give each other
before fleeing the mosquitoes
into the camp to strip
forgetting the fish bucket on the deck,
because dinner could wait
but we couldn’t.
RCGA, 2011
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Sunday, January 23, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Bodhi Work
That part of me that recognizes
the gradient between ethereal and solid,
firm and pliant
wants you lying nascent in the afternoon sunlight,
quiescent yet tremblingly responsive,
a beautiful instrument
reclining on my table
being lovingly oiled,
tuned,
played.
What music will you make?
December Morning
The sky is slate
and covers beckon
where you lie warmly
waiting with hands to mold me
soft clay into a vessel to contain you
My shivers are not from the chill
Through the frost-paned windows
only a gray light crosses
our shadowed privacy
yet I can see your eyes glowing
like winter fire
RCGA, 2010
and covers beckon
where you lie warmly
waiting with hands to mold me
soft clay into a vessel to contain you
My shivers are not from the chill
Through the frost-paned windows
only a gray light crosses
our shadowed privacy
yet I can see your eyes glowing
like winter fire
RCGA, 2010
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