courtyardThere are few languid summer afternoons here

Cooling near your pure male essence

Legs entwining legs, fingers touching fingers

Ceiling fan circling-circling above us

The river moving-moving by the slope

We could be in Venice or Paris

Within earshot of Henry Miller and Anais Nin

Smoking and laughing in conspiracy

Their souls rising from the lower courtyard

Excising our sun-filled stupor

That ought never

End

 

 

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