On the porch, where the air won’t move.
Wet, heavy, a thickness one must swim through.
I turned to you, slowly, so nearly dead, the water
the air
blurring you.
“Are you a barrelfish?”
Atmospheric perturbations x-raying the best of us.
No even an angelfish, possibly a flounder.
But lighting made it all majestic, and I made love to you, there on the porch.
Where the wind made waves of air.
Only regretting the weight of the eggs.
Writer Moe 