The Great Outdoors by Willie Smith

Sue slips up to her knee in the muck.
Without admitting it,
we’ve been both, lightly drunk, looking for a place
to fuck back here in the swamp.
Now we admit to looking for a place
to dry Sue’s pants.

We chance on a knoll
of moss and rotting leaves around
the trunks of a pine and a maple; then
she shuffles off her jeans, hangs them on
a low branch, and I’m
taking mine off, she’s removing her blouse.
We hold each other naked and smiling.

After rolling and humping in the dirt,
coming, uncaring about anything
but sunshine and sex,
we rest, chatting; realize we followed
into the swamp
and embraced
much like the first night we wound up in bed together.

The sun budges toward dusk. Shadows
lengthen. My underpants
lost, jeans muddied, testily sobering up,
pine needles down our backs, trudge homeward out of the swamp
uphill.

BIO NOTE: Deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror.

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