Away From The Town And Down By The Lake

 In between breaks,
those times
you decide
not to paint and I decide
not to write,
we pretend to argue
in the kitchen
as if living a familiar
scene you said like husband
and wife
and I wonder
if at night
we’d be like trees,
trees silent
as if in a pact
with each other or silent
only in sleep.
What then
of the milky moans
from my open throat?
I adore
how you play
and when you’re serious, deeper
than a heartfelt kiss,
trees sparkle as if in
firelight. Does longing
glow? Please,
I really want to know.

Alison Eastley

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