Harvest
People took to us,
but whispered.
We talked to everyone
No anxiety. Free,
new blooms in
Indian summer sun.We feigned opera
in leather jackets,
drank cranberry cordial
from plastic cups,
cross-dressed at gay
bars, played Halloween,
rarely made it to the bed
when we'd get home.
We painted faces,
pressed your breasts
against canvas and
called it art.
Watching pleasure,
mouthing pleasure,
knowing
the poet was us,
the season was short,
running through leaves
of contempt, from eyes
that have no autumn.
