Jeri Theriault

"Muzete mi dat...." *

Kiss me under wet trees in the murmur of leaf-talk,
        flagstones shimmering,
                                paths turned muddy.

It is not time to be old.

  The floody wind whispers
  and somewhere
  bivalves breathe small breaths through mud.

  Your stubble glitters like sand
  The world smells of sex.

Love me in the wild arms of evening under
        blankets,
                        the city waking below us.

It is not time to be old,
                        shrinking among dusty wood and woolens.

You will love me into vapor
I will know you into nothingness.
 
                Lips and scarves of laughter,
                 the inviolable sleeves of love --

We breathe through quick wet hearts.

* “Muzete mi dat....” is Czech for “Give me...”

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