Marla Rocheleau
It was me you called your soulmate that cool July night.
We sat
drinking red wine
out of plastic cups and sand kept collecting in the bottom
from the constant wind.
Most of our skin
was eaten from our ankles by sand fleas,
but we sat on that beach until the moon was black
and Socrates was resurrected.
A humid and sleepy August day found us making love under the ceiling fan.
We finished
just as the thunder started,
the rain had already invaded the rug
by the time you made your way over to the
sliding glass door, naked and invisible
I stayed surreal.
The beads of sweat that gathered in the small of my back
escaped like rain against the glass.
Steps
Jeff Crouch