Thursday, June 27, 2013

Nothing Begins but is After

After, you make a sort of backrest out of me, and lean and study the lake, which darkens at dusk, and we fall into thought. Passing storms render the moon a fluid glow. We are the distance we make and the bridge devised to end it, both. And yet.

And yet we go on, talking. Words spill out of us like blossoms, like tiny bells with a singular chime. We are manufacturers at heart. And the impulse to share - to give - is divine.

How easily is love misunderstood! Longing enters, desire sings: crickets as the day grows longer. You take me into your mouth hungrily and my breath quickens and moments later flowers. We lean into one another and go deeper, beyond bodies, outside time.

And later, when she sleeps, I go out into the yard. Pale moonlight enlarges the roses, each vaginal fold. I touch them gently - lightly - as earlier you opened before me - and what is hard in me softens and shines a little, like mica in roadside runoff. We learn, or we try to, and it's okay.

And it is okay! We go nowhere alone even as we take no others with us. Each word is its own tide, each sentence a season. Nothing ends, nothing begins, but is.

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