Summer 2003

Light from the sky fell
delirious as honeysuckle,
sharp as branches,
the fields burned with grass.
In the cool suburban flat,
my friend and I
lay down together.
He wanted to touch me.

A fly at the window
crashing against the glass
thumping at nothing.
Moisture in rocks,
a wild beating of wings,
things dropped on the floor,
a door unhinged—

The air burned with flowers,
their death brushed my skin
with a new arrogance,
and each new face on which
I gazed with love, is another
torso of light,
a clear day in a universe
where the grass
devoured everything.

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