Rush

Rush

And every distant, umber star
is an oblivion, kismet,
lying on the wheat fields where I first caught glimpse of your left breast,
exhaling and inhaling everything,
my body on her knees
worshipping the way
your skirt rippled about your thighs -
your labia
was sheathless.
"Arch,"
Four letters,
one syllable,
it caused the cage in you to reach up
for the Sun and the clouds and the plain, black birds
so then,
right there,
I could kiss the skin of angels.

This is not that Sunday,
the wheat fields are shorn, and blocky and iced,
boots crack old hairs between mud mounds,
the sound of a bleak wind drifts
as if to grate off the edges of warmth.
Yet still I picture your body,
sunlight the hue of your complexion,
the complexity of our
adventurous nature
ruled by Summer,
guiding a need
to set seeds
that'll never see
another
Summer.
So if you happen to walk here also
I hope you picture the loose cornflower
in a tendril behind my ear,
the way these bottle green eyes devoured your being,
how we handled those aching fascinations,
all tongues and hips and fingers
and how it was a moment that could last
seasons-long.