We watch a cleft sunset sink. I think of dogs
and their dark downs of fur, circling the bay
as if a drain, yelping at strangers, a quilt
of earthly vibration. It is the same with the oaks–
the shaking, the sadness, the sallow lavender
limping upon wet, holy grass. I watch a June
pass into soppy gas puddles, all pink paint
and latex, a luxury of leather jackets
sown on teenagers in the park. If I could
only hold you the way I wanted to; sun
burn upon sunburn, a sweaty kind
of intimacy that sinks the seats, the blue,
the beeping machine, the downbeat down
stream where the boat began to tick
like beady blue bugs wrestling under skin
sown on me like a leather quilt sans stitch,
a perfect inconvenience, a dark stretch
of midsummer sky covering rims of sweat
slick hands in the park where the dogs
began to howl because they knew of danger
long before we. We trace the outlines
of yolky sunset on our bellies; we yelp
as if to have more than just a human body.
2025