My first time
Was a complete
Humiliation.
She laid there
For eternity,
And judged my
Inadequacy.

Thankfully, she was lenient.
A wonderful woman,
Mercy possessed her
And she was patient.

The subsequent encounters
Were successful,
And she was satisfied.

Sometimes,
A man just needs
Some patience.

Family
And a large ***
Of steaming soup.
Like witches,
We gather and stir -
The foam almost overflows
In the heat.

The sharp crack
Of cans opening.
We sit, the hopeful product
Of the recipe
Enhancing our bonds.
Laughter and talk
Saturates the air.

I throw on the airlock,
And we part,
Anticipating
The next brew.

Dusk is a funny thing - an odd blank mask
That descends upon the Earth, summoning
Wisps of days long dead.  The drowning sun has
A strange way of fermenting a haze that
Brings a nostalgia.  A nostalgia of
Lush days with sweet air and a moon skirting
Strips of clouds.  Those sweet days are gone though.  What
Killed them?  Was it a traumatic moment,
Or something as banal as the loss of
Innocence due to time?  In the current
Haze of confusion it's impossible
To know.  Either way, the drowning sun casts
A comforting glow.  The wasted day draws
To a close and my melancholy grows.

There is a confusion in my mind,
A confusion that touches my bones
And, during the long hours,
Snuffs out the sun, rendering it
Strangely distant.

That confusion drove me out,
Into fresh air, yearning to
Rejuvenate myself.

In the strangled light
I stumbled across a naked cliff
On the vaulted earth, looking
Out over a distant sky.

"When will this vigil - this ceaseless
Weariness - end?" I asked.
The drowning sun seemed
To gaze back and answer,
"I hoped you could tell me!"