Lying with you
in the crumbly grass,
I hear
the sifting sound of dust,
and pine or oak;
my fingers dancing nervously with
little stones
shivering the smell
your hair chokes
in my throat.

Cats and cats
stroll round us like
lionesses in heat,
too rapid for the touch
rising only
if frustration bends their backs,
or suspicion craves their regal meat.

Softest purrs echo louder, clearer
than our shouts;
theirs have purpose, make sense;
ours like a desert well
emptied in a drought.

Let me sneak in the word TRUTH,
but then
I offer no more discussion;
discussion dies in
shared breath.
I gasp, gulping air,
reach for nothing but the pump -
your ticklish chest.
Rest now,
I do love you
still.

Now
lay on the night
dripping long wings through a cloudy flight;
try not to rhyme
sadness
or bewitched pity
with the direction wind tails your heart.

But
it is night,
isn't it.
We feel the moon again
gathering light,
opening a tight button
in our limp,
loosened
flesh. Yes. It is night.
It is night.