Eternity Could be Like This
Camille is barefoot.
Sits at her backyard
bistro table.
Sips an icy glass
of good sauvignon blanc.
Watches hummingbirds
as they whirr
from
fuchias to foxgloves,
promiscuously probe
deep inside open
blossoms.
Imagines
her lover,
prone, his
hunger
aroused, swelling.
Fantasizes riding
him long
and hard,
the scent and taste
of his pleasure.
She is content.
Put Out Water with
Fire
Camille
is pissed,
has
promised
herself
there would be
no
more boyfriends, lovers,
especially
husbands.
Now
she is hooked,
has
it bad
for
the newest
delinquent
who
disrupts
nights,
short-circuits
writing,
hardens
her nipples.
One
more pseudo
Jack
Kerouac,
Hank
Chinaski,
or
e.e. cummings.
Hates
her weakness.
Already
knows
disappointment,
betrayal,
major
heartbreak
are
coming.
Teaser
Camille contemplates
the gardener:
tight ass,
intriguing jeans bulge,
six pack abdomen,
muscular biceps.
Thinks of D.H. Lawrence,
his sensual women--
Connie Chatterley
with the gamekeeper,
a satisfying, yet
unsuitable lover.
Rafael grins,
white teeth against
cappuccino
tan.
She
imagines him lightly
nibbling her earlobe,
rough hands moving
against pale,
silky skin.
Her back arches,
toes curl.
She quivers,
feels him
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