the lovers who lay their hips in crackling leaves

careless New York winds,
a symphony aglow
of sun-soaked golden hair
the lovers who lay their hips in crackling leaves
take the summer with them

throng of cotton t-shirts with fruity sweat
stuffed in a top drawer
shirt she loved to wear
on long motorcycle rides
salt-lined lips quiver ocean's blue
and breasts pressed against thick leather
unfurled in a champagne hour
like Michelangelo’s hands,
pours another scotch
then make love on a cluttered table

the steel angels silent, once
our heads thrown back
against a foggy windshield
as she points up at the last star,
watch the morning light
trickle between her bare fingers

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