Saylor

Your face to the ozone, somewhere far from fantasy, tells me all I know, miles away from deadlines, dread political commentary, a love combined with mine, your cheeks smooth as loam, when your torso pulls free, helps me bake my scones, on Sunday's we drink wine, and you my lover seize, life from this gentle clime, we resist its tooth comb, dance like honey bees, around the rhododedrums, on a footpath without signs, in a house besides the sea, we choose to spend our time, as our bodies list and groan, let us dare to be, angels coming home, watching ships eternally.