Talking of Leaves

  Like cloud pools, I haven’t been touched in ten days; it’s June in New England and we’re in a serious talk. We might as well be on Crete or the underside of a hill by a highway, stopped for a quick bite of lunch. My thighs swivel the chair, we skip the traditions and move into silence, like wind over river. We’re on the wood floor and we roam, I love how we roam into therefore your hands slip over my skin, talking, taking me down to leafy fragrance and moss; our legs, whole stalks of trees, bend when we drift, slowly loam into our bodies.