the weather getting cooler, and
a tangle on her mind,
we met down at the waterfront,
as both were so inclined
we wrapped up in concupiscence,
amid the crates and dust:
as ashes turn to ashes and
stray thoughts turned into lust
we wrestled with our consciences,
each other, and the day;
then readdressed ourselves
so we could each go on our way
she looked at me appraisingly.
then suddenly, she said,
“one day, instead of tarpaulin,
we ought to use a bed”
but that, indeed, we never did.
we’d loved as best we could:
mid crates of disillusionment
and smells of grime
and wood
