The Ride

The Ride

I heard the shudder in your voice,
the melancholic trill  
that told me everything -
it had been convincing
last time we'd walked in,
you were not bothered,  
would not be -  
after the rain had pushed us  
out from East to West  
we took to resting on a bridge,  
arms left long upon that lichen-textured shelf.
 
You said that you loved her,
sighed it out, exposed us to it.
I watched that body unfurl.  
Sunset burnt on like satsumas,
oozed onto our drenched, Autumn clothes.
I pooled my palm in your palm,  
and let the sky hold heavy.  
Avon ran slow  
as if a plain gift for you -  
steadied the channel into a soft, bruise-hued landing,  
your frame giddy at the fill,
wetter still for the taste of her -
thought I'd convince you after
to run through the reed beds,
chase me to a blue Jeep  
heat could pummel as dusty relief,  
and you said,
"I knew from the beginning,"  
ain't that something,
the life blood we explore
when we're young enough to find it.  
It's easy to mistake.
I watch the dusk glisten,  
count each drop of rainfall,
falls from the eyelashes,
soaks in the toes.