match stick for a light post
hands racing up the leg of an old lover
heart beating like a war drum
bodies wrapped like grape vines
tasting the sweet wine on still wet lips
pulling and ripping the cloth like a wild storm rips the tree bare
naked in the grass that cuts the skin as a blade on silk
moonlight is dancing on the lake, slowly
a lifetime of hurting is stopped for this moment of rapture
slow drive with June bugs lighting the way
looking anywhere but at you recycled trash
trying not to think of the things you caused
hoping that everyone likes the poisoned cake you just feed them

tongue lightly licking a lollie as the hands reach
big gulps and coke
the day brakes and my smile falls as another amazing trip with you ends
our hands are caressing lightly like the baby with the lollie
we are racing against the sun
jumping up to reach help the last of our high fly
we land like fly in an oil painting the water is in us and around us
the splash from the pool woke the neighbors and we float there
minds at peace like after the first line
wondering if this is to be our last trip together our bodies embrace
the water holds us safe is what we are now

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently
compressed by a Thigh Master.

He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who
went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes
with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high
schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of the
boxes with a pinhole in it.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E.coli and he was room-temperature
prime English beef.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of
his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly
surcharge-free ATM.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with
vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal
quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Sex in the City"
comes on at 7:00pm instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, like maggots when you fry them in
hot oil.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also
never met.

Even in his last years, Grandad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that
had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan
just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a
while.

"Oh, Jason, take me!"; she panted, her breasts heaving like a Uni student on
$1 beer night.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real
duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or
something.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind
her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she
were a garbage truck backing up.

She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.

She walked into my office like a centipede with 90 missing legs.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the
wall.