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Recumbent
by Elana Wolff

The rest is guilt.

You remove
your boots to lie on the grass beside me.
Giving to the ground the rank of pathos,
role of bed. And reach for my hand (to hold it).

In lieu of permanence this is a token of eternity.

We are wet.

The deep waters have seeped to the surface, penetrated
our clothing -- on the downside.
Our fronts, however, are trysting with light.

We are shining; the sun is shining back.