Let's have a look. Last late-June we were huffed into the sky.
You looked down at the many swathes of earth and became yourself
again. I miss that you. What you are capable of up high, unsuited,
sun-struck. I miss my fingers in your hair, miss your approach
with hands out and long arms. With something wet to say.
Your chest against me, either way. I remember us sick with seduction.
Remember us looking. Garish motel drapes. Too much on our backs,
technoflesh, brainsucked. Landscapes sloped and all humans gone.
We've had moving water and hawks updrafting. Too much bourbon and wine.
Deer in the ploughed fields, an aerial view. A mountain lion once.
Firetower stilts. The world wants us in it signed-on and mindful. Our dead
say stop wasting it, stop unplanning lust and talk and all the available touch.
Stop not hanging the pewter candelabra over the bed. Next year: yes, let's.
Give me some sugar, then look down my blouse.
Your beloved must-have's what I am, and your backyard muck.
There's an outdoor movie up 61, there's a monument of ruined cars
on end in Nebraska. We could make a new poem in the kitchen, bring lipstick
back to bed. Choose gloxinia and tall wet grass, unstrap the workday. Let's
add more water. Lie on the clear, dry ground. Let's have another look this year,
let's stop waiting to be hurt, and hurting. It's all green out there and I want it back,
us up high again, always, all woozy and new.
