Greg Zimmerman / Poems
"in the middle of the second quarter,
under the bleachers, so the falling
change from spectator pockets beats
a random tribal rhythm on the legs
and backs and scuffles and various
gasps emerging from the flesh
stained earth below."
"on the beach at night in rain with
seaweed inside folded flesh and sand in
motion on ripe awakenings eagerly
lush and absorbing rain water like
wine at the Last Supper."
"underneath the thin steel shell
of Pontiac blue on the faint and rich
rug of station wagon carpet, rolling
small curls of rough fabric into friction
fashioned balls of beaded love to roll,
scatter, run and drop silent into tight
dark cracks of backseat leather."
When You stood up, your knees cracked.
The sound echoed for miles, ricocheting off
the walls of the canyon where you'd slept.
You turned, and the shadow of your breast
folded dangerously over the edges of red rock.
Opening your eyes, you took in the clouds, and
the sun burned naked and alone.
You stretched your arms, scratching at the heavens
with your fingers, leaving firmament beneath
Awake and alive, attached to the world in your
freedom, you let out a sigh, and the horizon
sagged in relief.
(your brown eyes)
your redly beautiful dark soft brownhair,
in my eyes, on my lips
my nose in the
pale and silent shallow of
your ears, tucking
whispers and faint traces
behind them, nestled
in the quiet space there)
forgetting all but leaving
love to lie happily
(your slender sides)
and steady shoulders,
laying still against
your breathing slow
and gentle, stomach smooth like seaglass,
(your lips pressing softly,
strong, urgent, calm)
the soft and silent slope between
the edge of your hips and -
to lie with you now
or then, or when, and
to hold you and to
be held by you
and to love
and be loved by
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