It’s been more than a year that I’ve written and posted the poem: Light Snow in Mid-July.
This is a sort-of tribute. Blissfully naive, how we artists believe we change the world with our art.
Curved eyebrows and curled mouth with a huff and puff of fronth teeth
and I’m staring.
of fresh sheets
and new sweat.
behind her back.
And I’m staring.
And we’re kissing.
And we’re breathing.
and hazel eyes
and hand clutched in mine-
the other is hesitant.
I nod, and
when it stars
(when she starts,
when I start – to moan),
ocean waves crash and dance across her features.
Her bright eyes
and high brows
and wide mouth.
Ocean waves crash and dance across her features
and I pant and yell like cliffs and caves.
And when she
lowers the curtains
and leans in closer
to the rise and fall of my chest,
the glint of sweat next to her small braid
than her darkened eyes in the dim light.
Her face is impossible to read.
There’s a high tide now.
The water rises before it overflows-
on her pink, sleeves beach.
Or with no interaction other than the waves hitting my back.
(Twice a flood.)
I can swear the sand is softer and more like silk every time.
Like it’s threatening to become the sky and clouds,
and I feel like this
every time I take a night swim.
Or maybe, my legs are just weak.
Lately, I’ve been playing with the sand in the sea
when I swim to wash it off.
It’s raining and I’m still catching
from that lying-down run across the shore-
to the bottom of the Earth
to the bottom of me.
Layed out shells,
were caressed and
drowned in the sand.
with my rising tide and
her black sand dune eyes,
there’s a few known sails that come to mind.
I know it means she knows I’m far too into this,
she’s far too into this,
she’s so far in,
so far in me.