rare things, the finest things

in a gravel lot at a               
                    jukebox joint the

oysters are crisp. and we                     
                    sip their flow

white wine and white wine and we                  
                     tip our cups

and crab leg snow.    the                   
                     butter runs down our fingers.   onto our tongues.

my bared foot is on your thigh and
                     your thumb strokes my sole. and

the hollow of your neck holds the perfume 
                     of rosewood and vintage leather.  clean laundry.

quarters are stocked and piled and                
                      is this the song

on metal chairs pulled closer    we vibrate.    cecelia and                              
                       making love...    and you purr.    and i purr. 

there is that purring.
 
later we will exit this                 
                      and slip back into our nights.   


******

so, sometimes, if i'm really seeing, i taste and smell and feel and hear that the moments are nothing less than a song.  and sometimes, i know that what that song is, is all of it.  everything important is right there.