Writing in Whangarei

Uretiti

by Peter Larsen

There is no shade
on beach or dune
curving for miles
in either direction
so here nudists,
mainly men,
middle-aged,
unnaturally bronze
with matronly hips
and small shoulders,
sit statuesque
on brilliant beach towels.

Waves do not break
but bounce back
off the sand bar
and recede toward craggy,
hazy islands.

From the double-back waves
she rises
pert, slinky, naked,
zigzagging
the soft sand
where jaw-dropped
teenage boys
pretend not to look.

Beside me
she towels off,
lies down
so I scoop
hot sand,
pour it
over her legs and arms

where my bliss
is her bliss
and her bliss
ovals her mouth
so I pour
and pour and pour
until slowly
she vanishes.

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