Sunday night you are in me
for the long haul.

You are in me at the bends
and brakes that skitter to stop
between the wrinkle and taut
of the sheet at the mercy
of the small of your back.

We get flat

and rest to write the stories
that beat against the doors
of traveling light.

We are highway miles and poetry.

You are a series of parenthesis
in an epic digression of
apostrophe breaths under me
at the circumflex wedge
of my knees.

It is the punctuation of a ride.

It's in the fluid lines
that map the movements that unwind
metaphors around these mountains
and rush to rivers in the hinges
of every kind that empty warm
on expectant shores.

08/13/2004

Author's Note: There should be a "Suggestive" tag.

Posted on 08/14/2004
Copyright © 2025 Christina Gleason