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by Robert Beveridge
There was still a touch
of daylight on the lake as we walked
the beach, aimless, and out
onto the jetty. Erie stretched
before us, endless and black,
deep with cool and possibility.
I could spend forever
in your eyes, and I did,
the last vestiges of light towards the pupil,
ever more grey until the outer rim,
as charcoal as the sky above us,
and as pregnant with rain.
It would be nice to say
the first drops fell as our lips touched,
but instead the rain held off,
built itself behind the far-away lightning.
We decided not to wait, kisses
like a river of chardonnay, clothes tossed
onto the rocks around us. Your body so new
to me now open, ready for exploration.
That's when it came and covered us,
chill of rain a relief inside the sweaty night.
The salty darkness of you mixed
with rain on your neck, caught beneath
my tongue, savored. There was
nothing else but rain and blackness
and the curves of your body forever new
to be explored and your eyes, as always,
filled with the promise of rain.