Puzzle

Slow Breakfast

for Jennifer


Fish and coffee in the morning,
fried the day before, the coffee fresh,
favourite day start of mine,
from mother's culture to son passed.

And stories and news in the morning
are not so hard to take in and absorb
as the day is yet to be unfold
against the ending of the world.

Her skin from dreams lightly salted,
her wild mane flowing perfectly,
hiding her face from me as she
heads to the bathroom to holy pee.

That white noise once extinguished 
tells of her return to warmth,
those air-cooled body ends all
touching and soft awakening me.

Bed linen a seascape of stormy seas
bettered by relation-ships: vessels
brimming with coffee and fantasy,
bound from her brain to our bed.

'Stay the course!' the captain
shouts to whomever's the first mate, 
soon to be promoted by sheer  
sharing of raw fish being fried.  

Gardening Day

for Jennifer

There was a French TV series
I watched in my pre-sexteen years
based loosely on Robinson Crusoe,
the protagonist sometimes abandoned
himself by laying face down
on a verdant, flowery field
with twin little boob-like hills
and a view to the ocean. 

Unlike him, or the series writer,
I've no dreams of fucking Mother Earth
unless we're talking of climate change,
earthly motherfucker each denier.

Changing the subject, today
she watered something in me
when she said,"It's a gardening day."
Or maybe it was, "Lure me in."

Arousal is confusing, we feel it while
its full source might not be traceable.

Yet it was a gardening day,
and the sun warmed my petals,
and my roots were unquenchable,
and there's no place for denial
as she's implanted in me.