Smoke.

Eruption.

Cicadas.

Night.

Fog.

Thunder.

Tide.

Growth.

Topography.

Dawn.

Dusk.

Humidity.

Night.

River.




I smell my coffee in your mouth. You use my body lotion. Almond

Driving alone, my heart races. I call you. It’s a warning, it’s a surprise. Overwhelming, I say

Families bring baskets of food and then more. We eat with our fingers and our laughing cleans our lips

Five days before his death, you prayed with my father, snapped a photo when he put on his blue hat

We keep finding stories we haven’t told each other; repeat the ones we know

I count the booms, the seconds before the lightning and the time it takes for you to drive from work to home

I can’t get my bearings when hours sink me the couch. I stretch toward you leaning back in the soft armchair

I shave the back of your neck to clean. You fold clothes and place them on the bed

Your identifiable marks are contemplation and patience. I’d know you anywhere

You can name the places I have traveled without you and with you, we lust wander

You don’t ask, when will you be finished? You remove the cold cup of tea, dump the wilted bag

Your fine hairs float into pinwheels in the sink and in bed you regulate me to warm

You have prayers, I have storytellers. You live grateful, I sleep peacefully

We have rituals we haven’t done before. Old in love, muddied in the heart, on to the sea