bikeboy

airstream travels
on your Yamaha 750
the tug of tarmac

slicing the white lines
like stitches ripped
in our wake

knees gripped
your hips harboured
between my thighs
fields stream by the full
yield of teeming green
sliding into patches
of harvested ochre
a film strip of summer
divided and framed
by the dark fingers of trees

shift
we thrust forward
my chest pressed
to your spine
soft flesh yielding
to bone
my arms strung
around your waist
a discipline
of no hands roaming,
all under a parachute sky