The current sluices through her toes, rendering them in duck shit.
She picks at a whitehead on her shoulder.
She wears a bra with solid black straps, sheer cups – expensive.
He doesn’t wear any clothes.
He didn’t notice her remove it, but her navel diamante is gone.
They have smoked too much ice. Anyone but them could see that,
but there isn’t anyone else
for kilometres. Everyone is either asleep at camp, or off dancing.
Overhead: dawn red-gum ashtanga.
Inside the pipe they smoke from, smoke more, it’s bituminous.
As she swims, she tongues the gap between her teeth – bloodshot
contortionist urging herself
through an enamel frame. Green mud daubs her emergent
belly. The deadwood outcrop slime
grants her fingers no purchase, feet no traction, so he pulls her up.
They get to be kissing, the sun gets itself ascended, influential. She
tastes of chemicals and river water.
In vain they try to fuck in the water. This is the third morning in a row
that they have not wakened. This has nothing at all to do with it.
He mentions the cat and axolotl cemetery, beneath the Monterey
pine in his childhood backyard. He plays
dumb when she asks him was he at ejaculation
age for his first orgasm. That supple
rime the axolotls got, white shadow, before death; he mentions it
and laughs. Deep down, they’re drawn to each other for the hyper
-commiseration, the overtasked body.
At different times their heads return to the home key after vagrant
harmonic wandering. Strawberries
ripen on blue vines. They smoke more. The Murray parents them.
Image: Axolotl / flickr
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