Tuesday, November 11, 2014


We made love in French Camp cemetery

near Stockton at war's end in 'forty-five,

long before we knew anything about

metaphor, symbol, or Jean-Paul Sartre,

before we knew Donne called coming dying,

in the spirit of France's "little death."

Thrust and hold, stones and bush were hot enough,

shaft and cleft hard enough to crush tombstones

(yet an impressed "T" lingered on her ass).

Wild seeds nestled in the hair of her crotch.

If I were to trip and tumble there today,

sixty-nine years later, with faltering hard,

flushed flesh and fluttering heart, would loin and lung,

testicle and ventricle, cell and tissue,

would all of old body pray, "Let's stay. Let's stay."?

CAN SHE GUESS? When as for money for my gift, /she said she couldn't budget any,/ I told her what I really wanted /wouldn't cost a single penny.

No comments:

Post a Comment