“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 