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The Problem of Fucking in Cars

Poetry & Prose | December 4, 2011
By Douglas Cavers

 

The moonlight shone upon your naked shoulders,
And ran like quicksilver down your back;
Your back curved like a crescent shore,
My hands as waves would flow upon it.

Our little space, the backseat, this metal frame,
Is greater than a kingdom’s span. Fingers
Fly as couriers to every realm,
Our bodies’ every hill and valley;
Returning word of pleasures foreign,
Shivers new; trembling, palpitating messages.

We flutter like sails in trade winds
Wrapped within each other, blowing far
To shores we’ve never traveled to.
We’re lifted on the wind of our desire;
No names; no time but this time.

O, that I could say that it’ll be long
And not like the passing headlights in the East!
But come tomorrow, you will be gone,
Driving miles and miles to the unknown West.

But that’s the problem with fucking in cars.
Nothing so hot can burn beyond a minute—
We are two strangers passing on the street;
Our love, a star that shoots across the sky;
Our love, a drunken smile bathed in tears;
Our love, a child conceived
But never born.