15

The twin diesel screws of the ferry churn the green

black water white. Where i have been remains

evident. The pines scratching at the edge of the

water are growing into a destination.

My head resting in the bay of your belly, floating

in the shallow tide of breath rising and falling.

The curved horizon of your mons rises between the

valley of your thighs, curls twisting into the

blue light of morning.

The sun shines without threat, it is early May and

the shadows are still wet from the recent

departure of the snow. A breeze pushes sideways

taking the cigarette smoke with it. Course

correction isn't organic, I never learned to make

the small adjustments to end up anywhere

.