The Idyllic Landscape of the Male Larry Jones
after Yeats
My gaze now lingering, mind engraving his aura, a smile playing upon lips, eyes glancing and aglow, chiaroscuro wafting, his profile in caesura, his lips now even and his dark eyes low, he stands and stretches wings, butterflies into a wave, from breakers away waves, then body surfs back to shore, until his hands grasp sand, forsaking an ocean grave, now standing and stretching as before, reclines beside me once more, back blanketed to sand, his navel glinting, and mesa rising from below, the plateau of his smooth chest, where I now place my hand, across this idyll of a man I know.
39.
