Eye socket tense with every surprise,
each attempt to execute
a stunning revival shrinks quick
into a crab hole
compounded by the weight of all
the water in the world.
Ambushing hellos with whispered goodbyes,
not much memoir goods in such
tarot driven uncouth solutions,
at least none that I care to give up for backwoods quirk-driven
best sellers hustled in guises of pleasantries and brave truths.
I can hear the sun rising. Your voice
in my ear, through your breaths raising you up and down,
and it goes, love, and it goes.
The sun cut open, a thousand halves of your face,
but I need the moon to enfold you
and the heat to reflect the stars.
Ease on the backswings, neck stuck in a half-turned
weary position.
Cut, cut, cut, I think. Cut, cut. Furious, I stretch double
in need to right myself and say, You are not fifteen.
I remind my old self, I cut a path through jungle to sift you out of that hot mess.
Close calls build sweet bridges to sought after revivals, made all the more
stunning by a clear sky after the long fires.
Spectre bees singe freckles in my arm
with their phantom stingers, and for a moment
it is not clear whether I skipped a few too many decades
or if I am dreaming.
