We zipped, eating mouthfuls of sandwich,
Tuna, from your long Fingers.
The wind raced
As roundabouts grew quicker
And the sky threw dew
Onto flashing wiper blades.
We were in Summer-heat, that Winter.
Me, freshly free from another
Dog-house stay on Valentine's day,
With you, escaping to Cambridgeshire
From your student cell to relive
A regatta day at the Blue-Boar:
Dark and musty pub. I was dizzy
From wine from the bottle;
I stared, grabbed your hand,
And admitted desire.
You squirmed and said:
You're not behaving English.
The fields burned past us like the
Renault's petrol and I could see
Your delighted fear as I pushed
The sub-compact hard down meagre
Motorways. Pushing always harder
Just to hear your thrill, preferring
To keep moving so I could clasp
Your wriggling body.
The horse pastures reminded you
Of family outings and motor trips
But they shall forever remind me
Of your crinkled lines of happiness
And the dollops of mayonnaise
I licked from your fingers;
The curve of your hip in the seat
And your warnings to be nice to
Our Little Car.
My heart raced the engine
As the glazed asphalt skimmed tyres,
And, worn from savage
Down-shifts, we stopped at that
Sterile convenience store
(you for the loo and me for
Sugary-sweet drinks.)
We savoured those Cokes,
Sipping the biting bubbles and
You cursed my clutch when the can,
Perched on the dash, fell and spewed
Its molasses onto your virgin jeans.
(Why the dash?, I asked, you know
I can't drive your cars.)
Our journey ended in the muddled
Dizziness of Cambridge, its one-way
Streets and complicated thoroughfares
Favoured the locals. The green and blue
Tin signs beckoned us along damp
Brownstones, past jutting spires
Of King's College and the worn wood façades
of Antique bookshops.
Students, slumped in tweeds,
Peddled three-speeds that blocked
Trickling traffic ways. Heady scholarship
Humbled and loaned us
The intent look of intellectuals
As we pondered what culture we'd consume
Before we consumed each other
In a room at the Cambridge Hotel.
We zipped, eating mouthfuls of sandwich,
Tuna, from your long Fingers.
The wind raced
As roundabouts grew quicker
And the sky threw dew
Onto flashing wiper blades.
We were in Summer-heat, that Winter.
Me, freshly free from another
Dog-house stay on Valentine's day,
With you, escaping to Cambridgeshire
From your student cell to relive
A regatta day at the Blue-Boar:
Dark and musty pub. I was dizzy
From wine from the bottle;
I stared, grabbed your hand,
And admitted desire.
You squirmed and said:
You're not behaving English.
The fields burned past us like the
Renault's petrol and I could see
Your delighted fear as I pushed
The sub-compact hard down meagre
Motorways. Pushing always harder
Just to hear your thrill, preferring
To keep moving so I could clasp
Your wriggling body.
The horse pastures reminded you
Of family outings and motor trips
But they shall forever remind me
Of your crinkled lines of happiness
And the dollops of mayonnaise
I licked from your fingers;
The curve of your hip in the seat
And your warnings to be nice to
Our Little Car.
My heart raced the engine
As the glazed asphalt skimmed tyres,
And, worn from savage
Down-shifts, we stopped at that
Sterile convenience store
(you for the loo and me for
Sugary-sweet drinks.)
We savoured those Cokes,
Sipping the biting bubbles and
You cursed my clutch when the can,
Perched on the dash, fell and spewed
Its molasses onto your virgin jeans.
(Why the dash?, I asked, you know
I can't drive your cars.)
Our journey ended in the muddled
Dizziness of Cambridge, its one-way
Streets and complicated thoroughfares
Favoured the locals. The green and blue
Tin signs beckoned us along damp
Brownstones, past jutting spires
Of King's College and the worn wood façades
of Antique bookshops.
Students, slumped in tweeds,
Peddled three-speeds that blocked
Trickling traffic ways. Heady scholarship
Humbled and loaned us
The intent look of intellectuals
As we pondered what culture we'd consume
Before we consumed each other
In a room at the Cambridge Hotel.
sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table
sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.
roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove
rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.
roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove
rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table
sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.
roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove
rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.
roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove
rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
winds the isles rarely see.
it is all anyone talks about,
these winds, the cold air,
their jackets and sweaters.
i press lotion into the skin
of her back. we laugh and speak
like blue bloods, jaws clenched,
reading from a book of fiction.
reading aloud for the sun, for
the wind, for each other, such
friends. such friendship to read
and sun, to bronze and feel
the cote d'azur on our flanks
in waikiki.
the book speaks french, the book
speaks english, and the words are
poetic, the words are absurd.
the novel calls itself surreal,
but it is self consciously erotic like
"the rose pulsates," "the skin is
nut brown," "the lover parts the
knees," "the smooth skin gives way
to fingers." out loud these words
are spoken and we laugh bright sunny
laughter.
Laughing at the absurdity of the erotic,
the protagonist taking many
lovers and weeping, always weeping,
for the sadness wells and pulsates
like her rose, like her chest, like
the surf lapping so near our
bare toes.
the air tastes especially
salty. i smell like a coconut.
she is so natural under the sun.
we laugh to ourselves that the
text is so hot we must swim.
we tip toe into the cold water
refreshed by the winds, these
uncommon winds, in hawaii.
slowly we enter. on tippy toes
en pointe like dancers. so slowly
making a quick dip agonizing, feeling
the sand give way to my feet. pulling
in tummies and wishing the winds to
cease and the water to turn bath like.
i am taller than she but she has the
leg advantage. water laps her hips.
stalemate. a count to three and away
to the bright orange windsock off shore.
swimming our heads bob, out further to
just before.
"this is where i stop, this is where
my fear of sharks begins. this is the
point past which i will be eaten alive."
we turn back, she sprints. i wallow
in the chop, having come from washington
days before. from the winter. her nut
brown skin, my pale white dough broiling.
i move my body through the saltiness, see
clarity when i open my eyes, feel my hair
wave like weeds across my forehead.
pulling myself from the water, i check
my bad washington knees -- they are strong
again. encore. il fait froid! mais non,
il fait beau -- it is always wonderful here.
winds the isles rarely see.
it is all anyone talks about,
these winds, the cold air,
their jackets and sweaters.
i press lotion into the skin
of her back. we laugh and speak
like blue bloods, jaws clenched,
reading from a book of fiction.
reading aloud for the sun, for
the wind, for each other, such
friends. such friendship to read
and sun, to bronze and feel
the cote d'azur on our flanks
in waikiki.
the book speaks french, the book
speaks english, and the words are
poetic, the words are absurd.
the novel calls itself surreal,
but it is self consciously erotic like
"the rose pulsates," "the skin is
nut brown," "the lover parts the
knees," "the smooth skin gives way
to fingers." out loud these words
are spoken and we laugh bright sunny
laughter.
Laughing at the absurdity of the erotic,
the protagonist taking many
lovers and weeping, always weeping,
for the sadness wells and pulsates
like her rose, like her chest, like
the surf lapping so near our
bare toes.
the air tastes especially
salty. i smell like a coconut.
she is so natural under the sun.
we laugh to ourselves that the
text is so hot we must swim.
we tip toe into the cold water
refreshed by the winds, these
uncommon winds, in hawaii.
slowly we enter. on tippy toes
en pointe like dancers. so slowly
making a quick dip agonizing, feeling
the sand give way to my feet. pulling
in tummies and wishing the winds to
cease and the water to turn bath like.
i am taller than she but she has the
leg advantage. water laps her hips.
stalemate. a count to three and away
to the bright orange windsock off shore.
swimming our heads bob, out further to
just before.
"this is where i stop, this is where
my fear of sharks begins. this is the
point past which i will be eaten alive."
we turn back, she sprints. i wallow
in the chop, having come from washington
days before. from the winter. her nut
brown skin, my pale white dough broiling.
i move my body through the saltiness, see
clarity when i open my eyes, feel my hair
wave like weeds across my forehead.
pulling myself from the water, i check
my bad washington knees -- they are strong
again. encore. il fait froid! mais non,
il fait beau -- it is always wonderful here.