A new poem, shared with The Mag and dVerse.
Me in
a loose-fitting
shirt, white cambric;
hat, low-crowned,
wide-brimmed, a
gaucho straw;
bandana loosely
tied, chopped levis,
knapsack,
espadrilles.
You in
shorts and
Roman sandals,
thongs tied
to the knee;
a sleeveless top,
cotton gauze;
your wiry hair
is tied into
a chiffon scarf.
We two,
startled strangers
days before, by
an unfamiliar sea
and this our
brief collusion.
A rocky path
that winds,
vertiginous,
up from
the road
to the lookout
at the summit.
The sun is loud
as a gong.
We climb
in silence,
through the
cicada trill
and chur,
biscuit brown,
sweat-slick,
separated by
our babel tongues,
then joined,
hauling wordless,
palm to gritty
palm as path
turns into track
turns into
dried-out
watercourse.
Now you climb
above me and
I watch your
long legs lift,
one the pinion
pulling, one
the springheel
balancing.
The play
of muscle,
sinews:
fleeting
shadows,
sunstripes,
puffs of dust
as your feet
seek purchase.
Near the summit
goshawks hover.
Sky and sea a
single brutal blue.
Breathing hard
we stretch, uncoil
inside the
shadow show
beneath a twisted
chestnut tree.
We offer words;
they fall like
birdsong, sweet,
misunderstood.
I drop a blanket
down between us,
kneel, look up
through blades
of sunlight. Kneeling
too, you take
my face between
your dusty palms.
Your eyes are
watchet blue,
like smoke seen
through diamond.
A coiled spring
of your hair
is caught
between our lips.
There are words,
but our lexicon
is speechless and
only the earth
beneath us
understands.
'Massif' sound file:
