"Chloe at Vermillion Crossing"
You’re done in by apple wine
and the good mountain air, stunning starlight intensity,
the thick forest-bottom darkness, and so much laughter with
friends.
You stagger up stairs to drop off the young woman –
this chamber maid named Chloe.
You’re standing in the doorway, holding onto the casings
as the room spins, comes into focus, spins – and you had no idea
this scene would haunt you twenty years into the future, but
Chloe reclines on her bed, propped against the wall,
she beckons you with a forefinger –
come here, she’s saying. The lust is tangible.
There on the bed is the Universe, the ancient dance,
fleshy pleasure, and walking across that creaky wooden floor
toward Chloe’s need has the potential to change your life, her life.
Across that floor is a new life vector, not just a quick one,
or a one-night stand – there's something going on here, beyond
base.
Being human, and male, and drunk – you hesitate. And in that
pause,
sanity trumps desire, sober thought trumps drunkenness.
You back away. Say goodnight. Sleep in your own cabin –
one foot anchoring the rolling sea of you to the floor.
Her name is not Chloe. You can’t remember her name.
The only thing you remember is her finger, her face,
and your retreat from “could be”.
It’s illegal to pick flowers in a national park, anyway.