—for Greg Nett
We swim home to where the curve of thigh
dips into the dark throat of love.
Tongues twist like sleek dolphins.
Syllables slip from our lips
and you spill like a sailor at flood tide.
Already I am missing you, dear stranger
set adrift on the surging sea
with your blue eyes already anchored
dips into the dark throat of love.
Tongues twist like sleek dolphins.
Syllables slip from our lips
and you spill like a sailor at flood tide.
Already I am missing you, dear stranger
set adrift on the surging sea
with your blue eyes already anchored
on a far distant shore.
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