All those times it seemed unlikely for your body to hold together your heart, bucking so hard, speaking with someone in full bloom of infatuation, the glint of their smile, their clean animal scent, candles flickering on windowsills
Outside winter is tearing twigs, possum families are curled, matryoshka dolls with naked tails bedded in tree knots, stuffed with duff and human jetsam hot from all the bodies jammed in their dormant loving domain
Clothing comes off layer after layer, sweater and shoes then shifting working phantom kinks out until a shoulder massage is offered, then the music gets very quiet you vow to remember each touch Braille spine and brassiere clasp it’s tactile overload for a virgin
cars and engine clash down in the switching yard a man is trying to hop a freight to get back to Chicago by Valentine’s because his daughter’s birthday falls in February somewhere and he hasn’t seen her since summer
lateness seeps in like gelatin quiet and body-warm sapping any chance of passion with common sense there’s class tomorrow and a home town honey in Montana those lips are going to remain unkissed but winter nights have new meaning
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
The green butterflies sometimes look light blue in the sun The lemon and lime leaves touch the sky and reflections come The brown tree trunks stand so very tall with branches that winds make hum The moss is like velvet