Imprudence

You are,
All the Wednesdays in June
(And the Thursdays that follow).

You are, we are,
Juliet and Lancelot;
Not quite right,
But damned if we were wrong.

And, Goodness (goodness!) how the grass felt,
Wet against your back and mine.
Then and there;
Why, I almost loved you!

Until the sun reached in and,
Poked its finger down my throat.
And here we are, and here you are;

Disgusting,
But lovely, still.

The Sun

Ah, that warm afternoon in March!
When you take off your socks and
Tip-toe across marble floors,
Through the doorway; out to the sun.
And you tip-toe, once again; quick on your burning feet.

And how it glistened, how it shivered with that playful blow of wind;
Desire in its simplest form.
And you, with your trickling crimson flush;
Thrust yourself into the water
and
Surrender.

Helios, don't you know?
All she ever wanted was to melt into the sun.