Temptation wears a blue tank top, no bra, keeps blond hair
bleached white, cropped short and spiky.
Barely half my age, everything she does—
the way she laces pink chucks, plops down on a beanbag chair,
peels a Clementine—everything pulses like spring tides.
Paperback in the pocket of her 501s,
Temptation reads Whitman, Nin, Zen and the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance, peddles a 3-speed Schwinn
to her job at the record store—She is not naive
but still believes in organic vegetables,
tossed out her television. Wild like laughter,
when we kiss, she tends to bite, so I tend to bleed.
Temptation is the long step from the cliff top.
On the way down God winks at me, but I do not cry out—
my only hope lies off the rocks, lost at sea.