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April-May 1977.

 Nigh Easter, in our seaport of loss, amid deathless mortality and
the imbroglio of fog,
 you scent chocolate mixed with brine
(due to the bonbons factory, mere steps from wharves, whores, and
When the sun cometh out,
dances a brave, beautiful girl atop toppling, fortress ruins:
she holds a glass of sangria (for good measure).
Okay, yep: She's a skinny, scalding blonde touting tiny, tart tits
(apparent because she's braless, shameless, ecstatically);
her hair is straw-like hemp hanging past her thin, broad shoulders;
still, ya want her, if she'll have ya....
(Already, you've strolled from blue Cook Avenue
in luminous, evening rain as fine as the scent of lilies, and she's
sighed, "Greensleeves," so you dream of a bed of clean,
Elizabethan, green grass.)
You take her out a strange date- April 16-
to share Manischewitz Concorde wine way too sweet (but that's the
plus cold chicken and lasagna
(nervous laughter fogging up eve):
a picnic- smack-dab there on the chilly, pebbly beach
(your blanket under ya, her blanket about ya),
a tape recorder serenading all of Black Rock Beach ....
You kiss. Hers is blonde and Acadienne, Catholic and mussels.
You're now two. When May cometh,
you spy,
at strawberry-field level, her pale breasts, her gold hair spread over
young grass.
(Her hair flows down- a gold dispensation over the Galilee of her body-
the white empire of her body.)
Then, you see her yellow hair under the white moon; her small, white
breasts crushed neath your tan weight;
her thin, red lips- her salt wholeness, fog, planks, fire, rum- all
yours, for now. 
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Title Annotation:POETRY
Author:Clarke, George E.
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2010
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