I gave up early:
and went to a houseboat
to mourn:
both named a beer
and splashed next
to woes about your love
in a bunk of redwood
done messy by stinkbugs.
your adjectives were pointed the
day that barley was
cut, reckless, in Groningen:
………. sultry. magnetic.. taut
……
.and then you said you
would arrive on
time, or late
to draw me out
and push on my groin–
and the void in between us
became not measured
in feet
but in eye glances gone awry:
looking at the cusp of your chiffon shirt
and wondering if your
lips tasted chapped or soft,
and how I could bite mine
on the ridge of your neck
when I took off your Lapointes
and threw you on your back
with consent.
perhaps
we didn’t know how to
hold the tension in life.
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