Waters-edge

You & I walking in the cool
My evening reverie
green, shaded at waters-edge
folds into itself
in the lateness of summer;
like this sherbet sky
August has colored the landscape
of sticky, melted color.
the yellow of sweet decay
Summer after high school,
& over-ripeness.

our first time ever..
Sycamore leaves big as plates,
my first car a 1962
mottled like bruised
red Rambler Classic-
& discarded fruit;
Hunters’ Mill to Yate’s Ford,
there are blackbirds
we parked at waters-edge.
clinging to the willows
Clinging to your crumpled blouse,
filling up with breeze
& feeling the blackberry wine
now that the sun has slipped
you finally let silk slip 
below the waters-edge.
to the floor mat below.

Just then,
Just then-
in the onrushing silver & rose,
faces flush,
the day’s last wasp brushes up against
wet flesh &
the swaying castorbean-
a frantic gathering of clothing..
the windswept water echoes
dampness in both
a million frogs under a million stars,
trouser & skirt;
and two cinnamon ducks fly into
two virgins still, we
a wafer-thin, crescent moon
thought we’d seen Jesus himself standing
at waters-edge..
at waters-edge.

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