hidden by a curtain of shade
under an isolated tree.
separated by bright hot lawn
from the rest of the park and the public
distant and waving in the heat.

we can’t hear them, but we watch them.
some look in our direction,
but we are invisible to them,
we are hidden, by the shade
and the summer wine
and a hypnotic desire
that is being expressed
like the sweat that trickles
under our clothes and tastes
of last night this morning now.

i’m sure you appreciate my restraint,
that i don’t interfere
with the only plan you have
despite it’s shortcomings
and your continued unhappiness
that our occasional meetings
highlight.

magic is the act of finding a path
between present circumstance
and desired future.

i spend all my time looking.

the first undressing,
can i still recall it?
vaguely. what i can recall
is the poverty of my imagination.
it missed the scar behind your shoulder,
the shape of your feet,
and the way you would always stand when naked.

it missed everything but the excitement.
painted that and faked the rest.
this made me commit to memory
everything unexpected,
so the final undressing i still carry
like a photograph in my wallet.

you are the bell and i am the dog.
on the street corner your silhouette rings
an exquisite note, wave,
that mutes the traffic
and makes me wonder
which morning, which afternoon,
which forgotten sight of you
burnt this trace, unintentional response.

the dog in someone’s experiment
wants to keep the thrill
because that is the reward.