resuscitation

this: the summersmell
of sun’s warmth smoothed
on entwined skins & their mattress promises;

his weight against the crescent of your womb
& peach moonshine on late indian half-full
nights, amber-fingered and dripping

like candleflame through open windows;
the sweat that beads on scars; the slight lightening
of irides from hardwood to hazel

in riverlight on a Sunday afternoon
under a sky like September
with clouds like a ribcage

spread in a deeper inhale.
it is enough to make you feel like drowning,
like you are being brought back

to life. some days they can pull you
from the pull of the water.
some days you simply sink.

that which withers (may sometimes be conjured again)

in riverwater, like in summer songs,
there is no fear, only
longing. we have never

once swum naked, never sunk
our suspicions in dark rivermud
to drown with all their scrapmetal

hearts; instead we bury them
in the backyard of the co-
habitation we both agree

was too soon, next
to the roses by the bleached-
bone fence. i miss your

honeysuckle, the pulling
sweet drips of you
with my tongue. i long

for a good, hard
stretch of new growth,
a backwards of time,

depths that brighten
in sunlight. i want
to plant lavender

and strawberries, shoo
away the stale that
creeps damp-wise

into us. i am
bareso(u)led. & tired
of pruning.

Remembering Hal and Gail

island sunset with girl

everyone
looks younger
in love.

we haven’t been
there much,
lately. i count

crows
feet around
your coronaries,

the hard-ish wrinkles
over my veins.
we need more red,

re-awakened
part-sun days,
thornless. river-

mud between
our toes, not
rose but rust-gold

long(ing)-
fingered lenses
through which

all the world
seems wetter and
better for it,

like spring,
like summer
in a mirror

in a cabin
on a side street
by the ocean, yes.

everyone
looks younger
in love.