Vacation In The Inner State

There was a singe of summer
barbecue as something warmed
her, sipping. There was no curfew 
on desire, in her wineglass,
or outdoors.

She scanned the span of backyard
grass, the unshaved blades:
her ocean, shattered 
tiles: her shore.

Her body waves to bathing
suits never bought, only savoured
on a screen: now her mind.
No money meant a richness
grew, in spite, as did appetite

For one she writes. He likes
men. She craves
him, still. For in exchange, words
are close. Her husband’s 

Touch is otiose, while her beloved
prose projects 
a tenderness that sculpts
deserted sands
to ecstatic glass within her.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland