Crickets rub their legs or it is their wings as I nod off in the chair of my front porch, a music not quite as soothing as hers is, yet reminiscent , something connects these sounds of summer, even if I can’t quite pin down what, someone, somewhere makes love to her, and she rubs her legs or wings as I hear it all in my head, that most vivid sound, like the banging of the bed board in the motel room behind mine, I do not need to see it to imagine it, the deep plunge that makes her wings rub, the passionate embrace, this man or woman, next in line to bring her pleasure, I envy him or her, wishing I could rub my legs against her legs and generate the sound I hear in the motel room behind mine, the deep plunge to get at the buried treasure, the soft embrace that gets more and more furious as the night goes on, as we rib out legs or wings, as we recreate the big bang that created the universe, what the French call “the little death,” while I – here on this porch – die a little bit the more I imagine it.
No comments:
Post a Comment