Some peaches were gathered in your name,
and that was enough beneath panels of
trick moonlight, parsing out phrases from
clouds, asleep like a Subaru in the suburbs.
This time, we come as just one, indifferent
to mealtime, caught with acrylic metallics
between sheets, waffling our waywardness,
agreeing to save a cartoon milk carton.
In each, one of us sleeps despondent though
eager to husk, brushing back delicious curls,
yet modest in the sloppy reticence of daily
correspondence, rejigging dirty postcards.
I could see poppies doffing pinkish caps.
I sensed in each bed a swart discipline,
a taste. Thoughts broken like islands, firm
partners thick as the Kawaiisu and Khoi.
This life, in fact, is about rubbernecking space
sacred as junk-bond litigants beyond all
purview, moist expectations festering our ears.
So peers triumph. Yet in the jealous ruckus
of shucking, wincing, I'd still surround you if
I could, replaying our loquacious pastimes:
breaching your neck's cover, its mint sugars,
our awkward commotion iridescent once.
After it descended, it didn't cause much pain.
Finally, your resale value was ascertained.
The meek leggings of fog, its crude smallnesses,
follow someone walking a dog duly along.
The Late Parade