Without much fanfare,
Tuesday looms again,
with its prickly heat and
a threat of hazy horizons.

There are days missing
from memory and it’s like…
well, if I can recall my first plum,
I could explain a galaxy, right?

She wished he’d bring her
a wagon of flowers and maybe
some sweet bread as well as
enough kisses to fill the void.

The thoughts are coming,
sticky and slow like fresh tar,
way below the circling hawk,
his message barely a whisper.

the love of a meadow
sprinkled with prickles
and fancy colors

does the horse see
the full scope of a rainbow
or just a renewable buffet

a galaxy of petals
spelling out a name
one that only wind can hear

love in the time of restraint
means never finishing
because there is no end

plucking an idea from the air
because summer is heavy
with color and fruit

I swiveled my hips below the table
as I guess you do too
when no one is looking,
keeping my own beat
to a song blaring into morning.
I don’t know if anyone else hears it
but that is not my concern.
I don’t know how I keep going
some days, only that it feels
like an imperative, like I’m being pushed
by unseen forces to turn and turn
and turn again, like the seasons
beneath the sun. Hot, curious, silly, sick,
it’s all there in the beat, in my hips.