Sediment Strikes The Atlantic

You, restless, revealing delicate dregs of stomach hairs as you stretch, and my nervous eyes steal a view. Your morning stubble doesnt give a damn. Be dissident in my house. We can share my bed.

Aeolian winds, excitedly static, touching tongues as they busy past to carve crests and peaks of mountains snowy. Glaciers grace slow, then someday plume mists of sand and ice into oceans, into sedimental memory.

When your lips are still dampened with our pungent beers, swigging, resume stories while we sit on the porch

observing Wal-Mart parking, safely distanced. You point your anger at newspaper headlines. Freckles bronzed and dirty scatter into place when you come closer. Then bright spots of headlights dash electric along ebony veins of highway or careful butter spread on Monday morning toast or choirs of infant laughter dispelling in nurseries or Time settling everything.