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By chris Date: 2006 Apr 25 Comment on this Work [[2006.04.25.19.40.977]] |
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I remember flesh the color of seashells and river stones, smoothed by the flow of millenniums....When I lower my face between your white thighs, it's like touching the killing tenderness of smooth basalt in a sandy arroyo, sculpted by a thousand years of rain. -John Nichols, The Last Beautiful Days of Autumn We had Taos that monsoon summer of our first year - the last wet year - when the rains came reliably in the evening, dousing the sagebrush plains running right up to the great cut in the earth through which a river ran. And we had no plans except live briefly in that cycle of torrent and drying - the wind before the storm sending the tumbleweeds flying, then the drops darkening the adobe houses along the acequias, the flooding arroyos running red and brown and high like blood - waiting out the dark moments because we knew there would again be sun to dry the sand. (No plans except share ice cream cones late and beat it back to our room and fuck like the rabbits we saw startle earlier before disappearing into the high grasses and blooming chamisa.) |