You are a grass.
Arms sprouted as green garlic scapes
A glow like daffodil.
Yellow pollen sits in the crook where your head
Rests
Buried in my neck
A cleaver of close thoughts
Stuck fast like burdock seeds.
The evening has a spring edge.
I don’t look at you but with you.
I can feel your body’s braille
And the phonemes you deposit to my ear.
Little sprinkles of spring rain.
Isn’t it just a glory of an evening
When we have the grasp of pure sense and
The setting rays fold like linen.
Nothing else happened here
Which is why I picture it so clearly.
The glow, the syllables, the traces of touch
The traces of what you said
You, and I
This dawdlesome memory
And the yellow flashes of fireflies
That treat my skull for a jar.