by Charles Watts
The woman was in black, hair and clothing italicized with grey
We met beside the photo of a concrete silo rigid in the sun
At the Art Opening. Both agreed that this was the photog’s
Finest work so far, that the thrust and shadow were pure examples of
The golden mean, a vision from a master. Her eyes were an ancient sea
A burial ground of lost ships, of amphora sealed, still filled with olive oil
And sweet Shirazi wine. Her lips were feather pillows plump and bold
And fluffed up for my comfort. I was as casual as a sighing man can be
As we descended the stairs and made for the Ceramics lab below the gallery.
There, amongst the potters wheels and clay, I fiddled with her bra strap
And she with my button fly and down she slid as I exploded into
Wakefulness, tumescent phallus throbbing in the poster bed
That rowed me lonely through the stormy Adirondack night.