These are the days

'These are the days,' he whispers,
his beer bottle siphons his words
like the winds that guide the passing boat,
its steam sent into the air, reminders that currents

drenched in black and white
could only burst at the border despite its contents,
which consists of

the woman, who lays
open to her man,
flat on her back behind him on his palm
(a phallic chiaroscuro),
eyes up, arms down, legs spread

towards the rejection of the man who whispers
swirlingly into his beer bottle,
'These are the days.'

'Are these the days?'
the grasped bottle in his bent hand reverbs,
because he cannot grasp the weight of his world
which rests upon the bend of a palm tree.

Maybe in the darkness below him his eyes open,
you see, because they don't think laterally
from each other, nor in parallels,  but in intersections --

her eyes up into the clouds, sculpted out of nothing,
his down into the backwards bloom;
she thinking,

'You kept hoping for a year
for something that would take a day
to make,

for this -- my love, my open legs --

but it is easier
for only one moment, for this thing,
this doubt,
to take you away,'

he thinking,

'These are the days
I will try for years
to drink away.'