Dennis A. Clark
Heartbeats Go
back arched
thigh muscles taut she catches in her hair the harvest moon air wet and coooool face flushed from the rush she sucks his thumb ocean mixed with sweat mixed with swooooon heartbeats go tap-tap, tap-tap taptaptaptaptaptap thump-thump ba-boom ba-boom ba-bum, ba-bum slowdown collapse and sigh night has never felt so wiiiiide Tangerines
Last light, tangerines.
This path winds into shadows. Back there: footprints, rinds. |
She Wonders Why I Choose Poetry
but who with words like stones
can explain those strange reflections, layered ghosts on glass, of some run-down desert motel we pass, its neon sign sputtering against the flitting of locusts rising before a sun set by now miles from here, replaced with the new moon and two strangers who, walking barefoot down the beach, reach for each other and grab tight, forgetting, as high tide masks their traces, the questions they've been longing to ask? Yellow Plums
Walt Whitman lies long
in marigolds, savoring yellow plums: sour-sweet.
|
