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Kissing
John McPhee Kiss me, John McPhee, and take me fly fishing. Let us go to the long-dammed river of a red state and use it for ardor's playground. Cavorting in the white rapids, splashing in the wet wet wet water while tempting the fish (whom you protest to love) to bite, hard, at an illusion, later tearing a barbed hook through the flesh of a lip, and then, at night, holding me while we assay the warm guts before the fire. Kiss me, John McPhee, and teach me of your lures. Tell me of the days in New Jersey, deep in the pine barrens, or of oranges or zeppelins or cattle rustlings, Bill Bradley in a bark canoe and geology! Rocks, rocks, everywhere you turn! Why, turn over a rock, and you find another rock... Kiss me, John McPhee, and take me into your tectonic-plated world of sailing ships and prose-colored pages, Princeton and everything else almost too fine to see. |
©2005 by Kiersten Conner-Sax
From "50 Tries" at kiersten.connersax.com