by Kenneth Wanamaker

You have just showered. The odor of pine
blends fragrantly with your scent, drives
me into desire's deep woods,
where the sun's rays are hushed
by overhangs of oak and poplar,
the fine lines of lust and love
are muted in leaf mold.
Chest hair sprouts from your collar, a glint of wetness
pearls on your lip.

We sip our coffee. It is Saturday. You leave
to play soccer and I must finish this poem. Your scent lingers
over your cup. The coffee tastes of leaf mold.
You are full in the sun, kicking and scrambling
with your teammates. I am company
to the fern I pruned, coaxed along, now lush,
its fronds overhanging the sill.

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