Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

January 24, 2009


Beneath the big, just-lit sky, the desert. Miles and miles, prickles and stones.
The sun already a hot shock across our cheekbones. It was a dry quiet,
so profound we made love in the open, clothed only by dove call. Near noon
we were packing the tent when he appeared: soft, full, dust-nuzzled gut;
chest like a dried mango. Sunburnt, once-wine, now-coral shorts. Everywhere
scaling skin and tousles of grey sweaty hair. Red face at once swollen and dry,
pebbly white teeth and eyes… his eyes…

“Got two bucks?”—I didn’t understand this, there.

His eyes: two blue pools in the desert, sad and clear.

Posted by Delire at January 24, 2009 12:24 PM
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