The Pleasure of Walking
How slender is the wind. I wonder if a particularly nice gust of wind
feels nice for the wind, or if my body feels coarse against it, like
passing through beads strung tackily in a doorway I remember. Does
the wind ever find me naked behind that doorway, and continue
to shield its eyes and part the way before it? Even this tailspun air
I lust to impress – her forcefulness, how she leans along the stillness
of a picturesque existence, dropping her sounds then picking them up
slowly. This time it’s the sound of a girl being fucked, or a woman – I’m
a man now I have to remember – or the wind herself, maybe
I lunge inside her with every step
unedit 
What a lovely way to describe the wind, Britt.
eden
Thank you Eden for the comment. I like knowing that my words are in your brain.
This is a beautiful work, Britt. I’ve come back to read this poem several times already, for the sheer pleasure of basking in your breezy words.
Sensuality is natural… And nature is sensual…
It is gusting here today in fits and spurts, and I’ll be seeking the pleasure you describe as I walk into the wind.
What a beautiful comment to read. I agree that nature is sensual, and I often regret how far our humanity has fallen from its own sense of touch. Working to fix that.
Thanks so much for reading and walking and living, Fever. More like you, please.
There is a sensuous aural quality to this poem -especially right here:
“I lust to impress – her forcefulness, how she leans along the stillness
of a picturesque existence”
I often find that your poetry takes very surprising and sprightly turns. I love that about this piece.
I’m going to remember “surprising and sprightly turns.” It’s a beautiful way to describe what I mostly do on accident.