PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That summer's sultriest Friday night was

cloudless and still, so full of stars and silence

that the mundane world around us seemed,

somehow and for once, unintrusive and

unimportant, even unexistant, despite the

parental and peerpressued prejudices that

were only waiting until breakfast to pounce again.

Moved by the tableaux just outside your window,

you turned off the lights in your room, and in the

rest of the house as you walked through it.

No need for shoes to disturb the quiet;

no need for a shirt to cover your bare torso, as

you waist-length hair cascaded in profuse curls

over that tan flesh.  Beneath the frayed cuffs of

your baggy, bell-bottom jeans, the grass seemed

warm and soft against the soles of your striped socks.

You recognized certain constellations, although that

sort of knowledge was not taught in by the high

school you attended and to which you must return at

summer's end.  Neither did that estimable instution

inform you that the very elements of which your

body consists were fused from hydrogen in the

seething cores of stars that, afterward, exploded

long ago.  Likewise, your jeans and socks, and the

silk thong that caresses and clings to your pubicals (as

you have named that area) are also constituted of

starspray, similar to cosmic semen that vivified certain

compounds of matter into life itself, with the

opportunity to acquire the experience of having a soul. 

Yours is in its ideally preferred environment:  this 

backyard (really your parents' but you live here), this 

casual style of clothing and appearance, and this 

very private time which, like dawn and dusk, always

seem to turn your thoughts to exquisite, homogenous love.

Starward

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