beneath this stately pleasure-dome

Last night we touched again,
cool, crisp air moving between us.
You at my feet,
in my hair,
the shivering ecstacy of your touch,
my tongue,
this familiar pleasure.

Then my hot madness
making you wet, small, dying!

But the night warmed, and you,
snowflake, were gone by morning.

tears are wasted salt

i must do better than weep: over the rabble-rouser words of stephen lewis.

a day

sick, and a little tired. but glad to have the brother here for the evening (an exuse to leave my solitude for a few hours of twinned sense of humour and a film enjoyed). and enjoyed a nice long chit-chat with meg-à-new-york as she wandered on and between trains back from princeton towards her home.

the sweetness of an afternoon in this sun-warmed home.

i have just spent the last 12 hours on email. that's right. half a whole day. there's another half a day more i could do, though i've made a dent.

this is the price. that i pay, and would gladly pay again, for 3 days away from my many accounts, queer queries, tiresome tirades, rushed requests...

three days in which to frolic in the woods (throwing windfall apples, picking burrs off of fleece burred eternal, hunting mushrooms); in which to make sweet, slow, hard-core, life-loving, flesh-adoring love; in which to stroke forbidden kitten fur and eat eggs from 9 new chickens; in which to play games (charades, board games, war games) and gamble; in which to visit families and friends; breath smoke into tired lungs; get sick but well at the same time.

and as always, left wanting more.

(which is always better than leaving wanting less!)