Garden
by Bill Vernon
The perfect red lips part, emitting
dissonance, her words. He sighs inside.
She sees his squinting. There's a moment
longer than despair can hold.
Sun wraps them in hot gauze. The ooze
released is voice exploding. How
beneath the level granules of her talcum
rise, a slow expanding, length and width,
the ridges of her sweat. Respond in kind
he does, two rivulets already caught
in wrinkles, coursing to his chin.
He wishes voluntary actions matched
as well. A breeze so fine it stills
her, stirs white rose, her tumbling hair
at temples, cools his pasty forehead.
Smiling, both of them, the tools of out-
side forces now, they're instruments
played by the elements. Eyes flit
from gleam to gleam, each thing a blossom
holding nectar. Ears surf on the waves
around impediments that hum. Their skin
drinks. Somewhere there is throbbing, and
it fills these hollow reeds with life.
From PoetsHaven.com
by Bill Vernon
The perfect red lips part, emitting
dissonance, her words. He sighs inside.
She sees his squinting. There's a moment
longer than despair can hold.
Sun wraps them in hot gauze. The ooze
released is voice exploding. How
beneath the level granules of her talcum
rise, a slow expanding, length and width,
the ridges of her sweat. Respond in kind
he does, two rivulets already caught
in wrinkles, coursing to his chin.
He wishes voluntary actions matched
as well. A breeze so fine it stills
her, stirs white rose, her tumbling hair
at temples, cools his pasty forehead.
Smiling, both of them, the tools of out-
side forces now, they're instruments
played by the elements. Eyes flit
from gleam to gleam, each thing a blossom
holding nectar. Ears surf on the waves
around impediments that hum. Their skin
drinks. Somewhere there is throbbing, and
it fills these hollow reeds with life.
From PoetsHaven.com