The man behind the newspaper (imagine it!) / shifted when her skirt lifted. The black / bear, the bees, deep / in the blueberries. The boy / in green rain boots caught / the leaf. Your terrific postcard—that bloke swinging her / hips high to the harmonica, swindling / p.m. to a.m. My masala and sugar steep between / my thighs. I hear the pocket watch / tick for a few clean minutes. Our bodies like bowls / of water on fire ride / into place, here in the perfect place / to do nothing.
Photo by Kyndall Ramirez on Unsplash
