cliché at eleven

Our words
fresh aromatic mint --
fuse giddy to the tongue,
biting like young sex,
raucous shrills in
sweet green air,

then clutter,
so quickly stale --
limp dying clover,
fallow fields spin
fast around,
leave them tasteless
grey, unheard.


Sparrows gathered on the veranda,
we eavesdropped on nearby lovers,
hand-fed one another tapas,
swigged lewd licks on Czech beer.

Under the table you hiked your skirt,
opened your thighs around my knee,
animated codes with delicate hands,
laughed about our first time.

Surrounded by leg, birds,
and curious voyeurs
wanting to share your smile,
hungry to stay young, touched,
needing a subtle strangeness
with an afternoon break.

< Back | Slow Trains Contents | Roomful of Navels Contents | Other Chapbooks | Next >