and here we are
aeroplaning a flat space in the meadow
masking our body stink
with crushed grass
we could be grass angels
but no
the bruise of your lips
is anything but angelic
like the quick sting
when you press each spent match to my skin
I inhale the smoke of you
draw you into my lungs like a prayer
like a yoga breath
but no
we are nowhere near a meditation
we make each other hoot and howl
our bodies zing and spit
the fizz of a grass stalk pulled slowly across a nipple
a fistful of hair
the toothing of an earlobe
day lateness turning
as we swim here
flounders on a retreating tide