slyly lays along the river, self-
consciously casual, fully-clothed
yet waiting for a bold, wet breeze
to lick that skirt between her thighs.
After a bottle of wine and too many songs
I disentangled myself from the accents,
just when my French was getting good.
The lights and I laughed long that night --
I dared every darkness with my tipsy fight,
and Lyon twirled me dizzily home.
No comments:
Post a Comment