Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                    ****** Sunbathing in the Garden of Literature

In the end everyone having been abusive
And babbling endlessly about it all
Dies

Hit the breaks, no room for mistakes,
feeling like the world's about to quake.
Caught between the choices I've made,
lost in stormy weather on an abandoned lake.

No directions— no clear route to take,
so many choices — afraid which to make.

I'll meet you
In the Rothko Chapel
We'll get a private view
I know some people
It'll be no hassle

Fourteen
Big canvas
In various black
We could stay there all week
We might never come back

Or as long as we can't take it
Raw emotion

Mostly dark

Go out through the emergency exit
Into the
Surrounding
Sunlit
Verdant
Park.

I swam up to meet you
Over sand and shell
Kissed your salted lips
Fresh and alive
Buoyant
Sun-ripe *******
Soft as ocean crests
Enlivened eyes  
Bodies pressed
Mast against Hull
Ramming
Rising with the swell
Hoisted close
Your half-buried bow
Port over starboard
Flooding the deck
Swaying
Side to side
Thrusting and thrashing
Salt tasted sweet
Entwined in our motion
Indiscreet
Swirling and splashing
Tumbling on the wash
Bringing to port
Anchored
Between bruised legs
Moist in wetness
Blustered by breeze
Tossed and tousled
Cargo spilled
Current spins us
Our feet scraping
On sharp stones
Bodies so fragile
The sun could sink them
If your eyes are not blue
Let the ocean drink them