© Sauce*Box, Fall 1997. All rights
revert to author.
for grace
by Michael McNeilley
our small boat rises quiet with the tide -
the mooring tugs it in toward the shore.
tight ringlets dark, the color of first blood,
enough to coil around my fingertip.
light upon the water paints a line
of green across my hand, down your side.
I write this with my tongue upon your thigh:
there is nothing I can do about the moon.
* * * * *
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