Wild Grass

The river flows onward
and the wild grass grows
as bright and greener than
an emerald star.

She leans in,
close,

close.

You smell her sweat
a scent that makes
you more and more
drunken
every time
you pick it up.

You pick her up
carry her inside
as the sun sets for two,
down the dark hallway
padding barefoot down
the hardwood floor.

Somebody once wrote
a poem about this;
of that you are sure.

But none of them
are you this night.

Because she knows
that this is really
her poem.

She tells you so
with her lips,
her scent--
her poetry
...and all the rest that is
this long humid night,
as the candles flicker
slowly burn down low
shedding light and shadow.

Outside
the wild grass grows.