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Stood on the wooden balcony in white stripped to the waist eyes peeled with glasses clutched close tried to still the violent shakes and stare right in the face of mars. Haze rose, gave it a corona of orange. We hesitated, wanted to bound down the stairs, scream and roll in the grass pull at our clothes. We watched the processional, then. The musicless streetmen with their carts, each filled with sweet meats they can drift smokelike and multicolored with heads bent toward each other as they trudge the marketplaces. How many oranges and blues and bright patterns will it take, until the stars come down and join them, embraced at last in the angular mass of arms and elbows and mouths and songs. We lie on the ground again, gape upward, heads turned to the side from time to time in hope of a new thing on the face of one of the sellers. We claim our minds are held aloft with wings and now that I see her in the supple mars-light I lust for her despite myself. I am captured in this moment, netted and isolated, drugged on the wheel of this our-minds-with-one-alone utterance from the mouths of the shambled angled Men.
Every blank hour of our passage we looked at each other with longing, that always happened when the other was looking away. For who will lust with us? I consume from the passers by, denied the white lowcutting of your blouses, the reshaped spires of your house. Each time we wrinkle our noses, seeking the smell of the other, the feel of the skin, one after another nightmare bites back in quick succession, its own parade of bones and heartache. now another procession starts in my eyes, the click of every hour and the bread-smell odor of our bodies. At last the oyster man walks past, his cart laden with the one object we came fore, the salt tang kiss in the face from the depths of the Sea, so hard to find out on the plains. We suck at them, like they're our first lovers, while the cart Men wander off, unsinging of other fires, ply their wares to dark streets where the lovers are also collapsed just so, only minus the stars.
Every blank hour of our passage we looked at each other with longing, that always happened when the other was looking away. For who will lust with us? I consume from the passers by, denied the white lowcutting of your blouses, the reshaped spires of your house. Each time we wrinkle our noses, seeking the smell of the other, the feel of the skin, one after another nightmare bites back in quick succession, its own parade of bones and heartache. now another procession starts in my eyes, the click of every hour and the bread-smell odor of our bodies. At last the oyster man walks past, his cart laden with the one object we came fore, the salt tang kiss in the face from the depths of the Sea, so hard to find out on the plains. We suck at them, like they're our first lovers, while the cart Men wander off, unsinging of other fires, ply their wares to dark streets where the lovers are also collapsed just so, only minus the stars.