2/Lingerring

Down where souls get muddy -

where it seems that every corner of the world stirs and jabbers,

so full that the trees jump,

its branches tickled by fox and dove.

Brambles, snicker together, trading love, trading secrets -

Down where grass grows tall,

where heat causes the whole world to sag:

binding its lanky arms around your waist,

and dragging its body behind yours/

Down there, things travel in pairs

because there can't be noise without touch

and there can't be touch without relation,

without muddy hands to smear muddy flopping marks over eager flesh,

without dirt under nails and bruises over knees,

without rumors, pregnant pauses, unsung songs, and long, tender grasps -

leaving scars of touch upon muddy skin.

In the night

down there -

After darkness rips off the cling-on of heat,

You lie with the cool earth,

him beside you, skin caked with mud -

lines and swirls, prints and muddy kisses: dry and neglected.

The marks of touches that made him remember

that god is always watching,

flaking away,

But always lingering for one moment more…

And when that mean old Virgo moon ripens in the sky

it draws its arms around the banks of every river -

pulling in, out, and in again, untangling knots of muscle and seed

and flushing out any excess down, down, deep into the estuary

where the water meets the sea - new and soiled.

The estuary where mud banks are made /undreggable/ caught going in, out, and in again.

As rivers curve and straighten and are pulled taut against the hills,

she - the goddess of my mind - will be there waiting,

guiding my body down the current,

eye-to-dancing-eye -

whispering disapproval with the intimate touch of sight.