Dreams of grass, dreams of glaciers with black spots
dreams of hawks
cutting, dipping and gliding.
I find a bitter pleasure
in finding you in the Grand Wagoneer.
Sensual figure, long and sleek,
in your black one piece,
the tan sip of your lips,
the sting of you
as the gulls and children explode in the surf.
The simmer of sun into ocean
into our throats
closing over ourselves, gardenias rotting, three empty beer bottles
clattering the back seat floor
as we stop and then go
then stop again.
A beautiful body erases intelligence,
the brains walked upstairs
socks in their mouths
as our loveliness drowned
a thousand pools, and the elegant ones
sipped Southsides and talked
of fucking and the weather.