That dream where I can almost taste orgasmic clarity
My feet stick, held by morass, by Louisiana swamp aglow in
Taken out of time or place, escape flows simply, like the
Mississippi against the tide, old man River, no longer bound
Love is an image. Taking, giving hands, lowered arms, chest
to breast, to breath, to twining. Warm inside our fire, desire
gently glows, sweetly grows, implants a secret smile to feel again
memories of Spring.
Now is another Season. Cold slush infecting every consideration.
Petulant, wary, indisposed to suffer gladly, I feel the ire rising.
I would fight if not so sluggish by design, if a winsome target would
but align with my fist or feet or focus.
It is not Spring I seek, not awakening to amor or battle.
Covered in soft frost of Winter's dream, scent murmurs
of electricity, no need for more.
March 7, 2010