Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Sixty miles per hour
along the Pacific Coast Highway
beside you, and you say, I wish
that you would lay your hand upon my thigh,
and so I do. The sea is gray with rain,
and no perceptible horizon reveals
saltwater to sky.
Now that I am old, ad patres, as it were,
and you are older still, I regret to say
that yours was not the first
my hand had touched.
(ad patres, Latin, to be dead, to be gathered to ones forefathers.) :)