Peeking out
In the grass there was wind—a green wind in the grass.
He had lived in that house four years. For four long, angry, dull years. He had hated it, hated every minute of every day of every month of every year. It had not been his house, neither his life, but theirs, preeminently theirs. Life lived their way. He had lived not his own life at all, but theirs.
Up now peeks the penis slow and careful from his nest, from the curly hair that is sign of the boy matured to man: hair grown curly. Out looks penis from his safe black nest, peeking out. What in the world shall await him?
The clouds were moving across the sky, quick and sudden in their rush.
The water cascaded over his shoulders, down his breast and genitals and down his legs, bouncing upon the rocks off the hooks of his two feet.
