Water doesn’t meander, it just looks that way

from somewhere above, sweeping curves

all choosing (or are they chosen for?)

the path of least resistance; there is no time

to waste, only the scurrying voice of haste

From the hill I can see the river where tomorrow

we will go fishing and I stand on the left of

where you cast and the swept hook buries itself

into my hand and yanks and I cry out ‘Stop!’

Your fear disguised as anger as you pull the barb out.

Or how you and I walked to the sound of the rain

And we stopped before the lights, under the trees

tapping out the rhythm of a thousand dripping leaves

and I kissed you softly, just once, the taste of you

and my mind stopped its wavering chatter. Silence.

And then like a dam burst we could not stop,

refused to walk  straight home, meandering streets,

clothes stuck to skin – your skin! how soft it was

how real your body was against mine, a torrent

of sensation in the torrents of rain that fell.

And the way you would greet me, a punch

on the arm, so violent – for a girl – and your

blue eyes and the way you looked at me when my hand

meandered across your body, fingers lazily dragged

across your hair, your breasts, your belly.


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