The quiet river. And your head on his thigh is lovely, startling. As if to keep him from sleep, the curve of your back draws him in. And your warm hair that smells of flowers pulls him tight against your skin. Later, you twist away, coil from this last sun.
Nothing stays but earth chill.
Grass in his hand disarms him. Restless and falling to the ground beside you, he traces how far away the stars have grown, and those dark mouths that live in your sleep. Some beautiful lines in there in both collections. Lyn is a one-woman poetry factory and an institution, and while quality, not quantity should be the rule of thumb in judging her prodigious poetry output's merits, the truth is, at the heart of it all lie very good poems.