Small rabbits at dusk. Every sunset fades like a season – bruised peach prophets falling through evergreen frames. It's not the salt in the sentences or the way they melt in my mouth. It is the symphony of unnamed notes, the alternative realm opened upon climax, the impression of your knees on the kneeler after you're long gone . . .
Even in June, October is always on the way; your hyphen mouth tells me so.
Supplies stockpile on the heirloom table: gluten free pancake mix, organic tortilla chips, popcorn seeds, s'mores, and local beer. The french press – because good friends are worth good coffee. These custodians of wide-open places tend the coals after migration. Honor instinct. The elephants must sway in the rhythm of the red oat grass; the acacia must anchor the flat clouds of Kilimanjaro. And the missionaries must return to tell us about siafu and terrorist attacks and the scavenging kites that steal lunch our of your hands. Do you remember the time when the baboons stole the cooler out of our hands and guzzled our Coke's like drunken sailors?
With my feet in the stirrups we conversed about nonprofits in third world countries. Maybe more tests. Maybe not. The body plays an anchor in a show I've already seen.
Night swimming. R.E.M. floats forward from summer soundtracks devoured in and out of love. I'm going to do it; I'm going to let the moon see my weightless nakedness in the still waters of a sleeping lake.
No. Body. Cares.
wish I may –
the sky's colander of stars
healing empty hands