Dead Grass Romp

the brown grass
crunched like
dry bones – with as
much healing power
as Ezekiel’s –
beneath our romp
as we rolled
to and fro
mouths and fingers
locked in a kiss
as clear as
this blue
November
sky.

his prickly fingers
tangled themselves
in your auburn
hair and brushed
lightly across
my back,
urging me
deeper.