“Yes, we must call it love.”
Is love where we find it,
shin upon thigh,
carpal in graceful nape,
faces interrupted
in rapt murmurs
between sex and sleep,
tenderness choked by sand?
Or does it still
swarm the earth
rustling round
our soft grey brains,
leaving tracks
like a legion of shorebirds,
leading us on,
arm in arm, over the dunes?
deuce coupe 
J.S. MacLean lives in Calgary Alberta. Hs work has appeared in such places as ditch, Why Vandalism? battered Suitcase, Feathertale, Soundzine, Cross Country Skier Magazine, tinfoildresses, and various others. Most recent work appears in The Cimaera, The Toronto Quarterly, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Callused Hands. In his spare time he wears various hats working on a newish online journal, The Triggerfish Critical Review.