Jeffrey Taylor

Gone with Summer

Air, this air,
shifting autumn
reminds me

of her ribcage
panting in the doorway.

Maybe it’s the way
           I stare at the nude, grey
           sky so often…
           so sexy, sexed by clouds.

I pulled her skirt up
           once in an alley
           behind Poolhall Junkies,
           kicking bricks and tonguing skin.

And we scrambled home
           to slip into cotton bulge,
           where I chewed on her fingers,
           nibbling, nibbling, nibbling.

Meet me on the roof
           of the North End
           Athletic Club.

We’ll watch the jade harbor
and oil slicks
in the tugboats’ wakes.

Return to Volume 6.1

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