you give me this, i give you
that. it should be simple and
without much sentiment. such
are the tacit rules of human
exchange for times like this
one: an evening roll in the hay, au
bord de la marne, where it is late into
autumn and steam rises gently off the
bodies of the munching bovines, the mud-
crusted ponies. i take off my old
lady mask - as diane once said-
and slip easily out of my street
worn jeans. i sleep all night in
your branches. it is warm there,
despite the snowflakes falling
around us. which of us paid
for dinner at the country
inn? was it momentary shelter,
altar of encounter? did nothing
flicker in the heart, beyond
basic calculation, the thought
that one place is as good
or perhaps better
than another?
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