The green hill shone

in the summer sun

as the lone island

among coal banks

and pines.

We danced

like lightning bugs.

It was sweltering

beneath the unforgiving sky

and the day was so full

of heat and dust;

relief came only

in dreams.

Post-storm clouds moved faster

than deer at a switchboard;

the chatter is mostly navigation-

like housewives in molasses.

The navy hasn’t reported many UFOs

because their desert is already blue.

Skies don’t have dialects.

She looks up with less and less joy.

When he sits quietly for too long,

he sees spies, which turn out to be

his eyes closing in on window screens,

lashes lashing, lashed.

Post-storm air tastes like licking

a railway track but the romance

of going someplace makes the tongue

dance a little and sing ‘Amen’.

I’ve waited a long time to see the moon

and sometimes it seems

she’s been watching me

and maybe waiting for a reaction.

I don’t think she knows how thrilling

it is to learn her craters.

I already know I don’t measure up

but we can still dance to her light.

The hills at night almost demand it.

I like the little diorama I’ve been placed

in, though I would have chosen

a different table and rug.

Flowers bloom semi-regularly here

and food is readily available

as long as I sit at a desk several hours

a week and smile and ignore

a large portion of broadcast media.

Daydreams rum rampant inside

contained spaces. I follow a trail.

She reaches for relief

but finds an unopened book

which she can barely look at

for fear of being unworthy.

She fights gravity for a cup of tea

and sits curled up

feeling unwelcome as sun pushes fog

out to sea.