Voyeurism

I love how the sun sees you.
Golden and tethered to the rock
of him, in a field of dead grass that hasn't yet
revived from winter's angry attack.
Your hair curtaining off the view of your face but
from the top your knees are in frame and stick out
in front of you, a testament to your geometry.

And how the grass feels you, the flat of your calf
cool and long, resting on the sediment of him and
pressing firm and real on each withered blade.
Rythmic movement of a rocking horse thought.
Back and forth, back and forth, slower, faster,
first your knees and then your feet.
The shifting of the weight on their shadowed stems.

I love how the air tastes you
as it swirls around your hands that press against
the granite of his chest (fingers that taste of old pennies),
and your open shirt of dryer sheets. It licks your
bared breasts and tastes the sweat that surfaces there in the heat
of the moment, and the sun that sees you so.
Through your hair of lilacs and around to breathe the faintness
of the toothpaste from this morning, and the beer that sits beside you,
up against a rock.

When the tree hears you, it listens carelessly
to the rush of breath, a runner's breath
that echoes from you both and sounds almost like a heartbeat
and maybe it is. The soft slapping of flesh on flesh
from under the mufflement of the green cotton skirt you put on
this morning, because you plan ahead, I suppose.
Occasionally there comes from inside your skin
a moan that sneaks out in waves from the throat
and the mouth both so open in the air that can taste you so.

And how he smells you,
the mingling of scents of a million cells jumbling together
in a heady way. Light vanilla and orange from your neck,
and the sweat of you, and the beer, yes.
The musk of you rising from between your legs as you rise
from him, a stem to his root. The smell of ash on your
fingers, from the cigarette in the car on the way to this
little forgotten place by the side of a dirt road
(and he can smell the dirt, so fresh on your legs, and
the grass that feels you so).

I think these things, as I sit behind a bush
and watch the carefree fuck of you.
I wish that I was the sun, or the grass, or the air, the tree.


I wish I was him.