The Watch

I was watching 
Him watch her
His eyes
Seemed to delight
How she smelled
An autumn apple
Before the first bite
Biblically
But not contrite
Her nose buried deep
In the pit 
Of the core
A seasonal seep
Of which summer bore
I watched him
Watch her
With lust in his eyes
In the same
Mind frame
Of my two green spies

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Brunch For Bees

Sea Said

peach

He brought peaches to my porch. There were four perfect peaches in a clear bag, placed on a table. They were still cold. These peaches, their skin so soft, and shining yellow and orange and maroon, bore his fragrance. I touched the stem that remained, the umbilical broken inside a dimple. I kissed it there..I delighted in his peaches. He toiled in pride, early mornings, with care, before the blossoms were born. His hands strong and bold with calloused labor. I tasted his peaches. I sat in the sun on the edge of summer, wood at my feet, stained with shiny sugar, brunch for bees, from the juices that escaped me. I studied the center, a pit pocked in sienna. I delighted in his peaches. I photographed them. On a brown batik background, the peach posed pretty for me. I painted his peaches. On canvas, I touched him with each…

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History Book – Letters Unsent #5

It was raining and the Spring was so young, it clung as a shy child, leaves near bursting, lime pustules, dotting lanes and veins of my drive. Insert your pulse, you grabbed my jaw, both hands, and palpable breaths, percolating  far too long, they too burst, against a wall, and halls, hands grabbing walls, you inside, me-nowhere to hide. Were we not so tangled, this web, surrogate to all world pleasures? This history book…I want to read it, again. 

Pause The Moon- Letters Unsent #4

What is it, I ever wanted of this, you dared to ask? Nothing and everything, and only this:
A time to make a heart warp with regrets. Melodies and movies and signs on the streets and highways, to make one remember a destination when the summer was young and promising, scorching the steel in which hearts had grown, as decades and the maps of lives became etched around eyes and mouths. Mouths that once paused the moon when they met. Mouths now emptied of each other. Tea and beer and cigarettes. White wine and a bar stool that bore witness to eyes of the world staring and stopping the sun in a sky with a memory of daylight.  Pages poured from a soul trapped in print with ink chronicling a crisis between logic and lust. Pavement and oceans knew of  the chasm. It occupied places in the afternoons, while the rains visited the valley like a secret code tapping between flesh and fire. It was and will remain, without quenching.