altar of the marsh

composed,

save for his wild hair,

he leans

forward and back,

words rolling,

dredging up, somewhat shyly,

his recent regrets, while I,

unsure, in my southern summer dress,

traced with scarlet, curl

into the cushions,

wide awake and fluttering

child's smile electric smile smeared smile

sweet night, rushed and running,

full steam

through false faints and feigns of feeling

-- if not,

every move of unbalanced blood,

unconscious

flush, drags

down the horizon

a storm,

our own

long foreseen

desertion