Sylvia

Your face is golden in the sun,
Your body glistens wet –
Your fifties swimsuit draws my eye
I dream of its caress.

Sylvia, if I could be
A bather in the past,
I’d lift your head and kiss your cheek,
If you’d permit me that.

I’d draw your darkness with my tongue
from your deepest place,
I’d feel your heat, your grasping hand,
I’d notice in your face –

The genius of stranded souls
upon a crackling beach,
then words would form upon your lips
of poems you would teach –

the lighter horse, your latter ride,
and walks upon the crags,
some peaceful versions of your life.
Your death was such a drag.

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