20th
AM no waking things to wake us yet. and just as well, since our dreams haven't fully receded, pooling at the backs of our eyes, in the same manner that nightfrost drips from the tips of the atlas spruce in the heat of morning. i reach for you and gather up the light.
PM quickly, with careful fingers you reach into the sound of a chainsaw and rearrange it. even before you draw back your hand, I hear swallows. you repeat the act, now it's a chorus of cicadas.
a gust shakes seedcopters out of the maple across the street. they fall spinning, with a metallic whine i find unbearable, and land like bolts on the asphalt.
but you, you are hearing the molecules of paint on our porch deck sing in the stillstrong sunlight.
















