Walking for Flowers Walking, remembering her hair hanging over his face, the texture of ribs and hips, flavor of neck-- how her head cocks, as if straining to catch quiet music, how her eyes slide wide, recognizing the tune, how nipples flush and fill as she hums from the throat. Walking for blocks, remembering warm terrain he maps with lips, the country slick under fingertips-- her heaving as if restless in sleep while he tastes communion wine. Walking streets familiar as her touch, remembering anticipating from one caress the next, and the next differing sweetly from his anticipation-- how startled his heart, when she cups and guides him within, how far it seems and lush, what comfort at the middle of her. Walking, walking, lips parted, lost to red remembrance, to slithering haste, until he comes to himself again, leaning on a cool wall beside flower carts in the market. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.