Wednesday, April 11, 2007


A Second
Lovesong of the Inner Girl

As usual too early, just from fear of being late,
I climbed his hill and drove back into winter,

Stood there behind the bright red truck,

Looked down into the hollow,

At a clearing not much bigger

Than the little house within it --

Tossed together, tall, the work of his own hands

And in its own way


Up too early in the morning, just from being lazy late,
I dressed and tiptoed down the stairs,
Set out to find the outhouse in the drifting snow,

The air much warmer than had been expected.

I sat among the chain saw gear and through the open door

Saw dry white flakes blow gently by,
Like them the breaking morning

In its own way


Upstairs again: his bed and his embrace,
My sudden wild abandon, found so late,

Set free by touch so gentle and so rough at once,

Sweet unrelenting push beyond my bounds --

Then gazing upward in surprise, I saw him
Veil his eyes and heard him moan,

Moan back at me in answer,

That too in its own way



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