Bones and Tombstones

A curious romance of puriant form, some

purile insediment of lust that massed

our storm over flattened moss, heathen

bracken and needles of pine, caught finely

in the hair of my neck.

Sandwiched;

Victorian graves our bedside sentinels,

the earth and a blanket our co-conspirators

of heat in the cooling darkness.

It was kisses in the dimness,

not pitch in the fade of clouds too

thin to block the moon, too

thick for stars;

it was skin on air, and warming the grateful

wind that sometimes blew, but never

blew too hard or soft;

it was fingers combing sin

from hair, bare hands burying

it in the ground with the conifer as our

headboard;

and hands under shirts

like succubus entrails on wandering

skin;

and the earth working with us,

its steady mattress, unstrung,

just whispering ground and you looking

down;

and bones becoming flesh as blood

roamed through veins,

flesh becoming more than an

incidental science, a true

transcendence amongst those flaccid

tombstones;

and it was loving you,

looking up at the curtains drawn

against the sky,

the rain in our eyes,

a curious romance of firsts.