She comes up out of the sea
and she is all blond –
she has lost her bikini;
the shark of her smile took it. She
reaches back; wrings brassy hair
in a wet mass. She wants to come over,
primp, turn around – pray her ass be kissed.
Her eyes glint sea-green; her breasts float
large and gently sloped as distant breakers;
nipples buoys; bush surf white. She
straddles the screen. Between the crack
of her butt you glimpse a sunsquint;
close eyes to sniff the vision burst.
Your throat detects encircling cigarettes
and bad cigars, old coats, stale popcorn;
knees cracking; torn leather seats creaking…
Open the eyes – to catch a last sneer,
as she steers her posterior down on the
mouth of the camera, turning all dark
in the must you breathe.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 