The Spanish Arch
We met in Neachtain’s, both too deep in drink
and our tongues soot-black lolled, fat and useless
to our slurring spirits whose souls did shrink
so only our flesh sang of shared caress
(AND)
she spun then skirts around me as she sat
she up-on me, I with my belt undone
two pair rocking, whose joining need begat
on Spanish stone, a clattering our own
the stout coursing through me, it drove me wild
and mad, too, with the sensefulness of it
for its tar heightened truth unreconciled:
love stowed for lust, as red-flesh bursts when hit
and our public bodywork left us rent
two harlequin figures in motion, spent
(AND)
the raised and flat stone bollard cool to touch
in summer sun invited us to lie
as though it were a civic street-bed plush
ashlar-spun to meet our keen wanting cry
and we slurred, too, in speech, but knew enough
to leave together in the day’s twilight
our blood too hot to ever slough lust off
and in our stupor, thirst became a blight
(AND)
surrounding us, as we both swayed, were men
and women, too, juggling and dancing there
where others lay, unable to condemn
we pair, who hid sighs with deep breaths of air
and ours would be the truth of sharpmost teeth
we drunk and want mad on unsteady feet.
