A blown kiss floats above the ocean, lingers
dreamt, a thumbprint stamped
from nectarines with fuzz of peach and stubble of
face, lobe of ear, grazed,
The nectar drips down
soft neck of smoke, sweat, sweet
smell of Indian summer, legs and twigs entwined, not tangled.
Burning blue and brown
eyes look away, the music stops but doesn’t.
And he and he fuck
And he and he make love
And he and he coffee through the rain walk that pours
wine on his t-shirt of flowers . . .
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.