to draw up her smokestack swords in the sunset
and hear the wind kiss her thigh. the skirt she bought
in Paris blended with the sky while the breeze
blew over the rooftops. we climbed onto the ledge
and i thought my head would become Newton's apple
on the steps below: my mind was spinning
as my finger pressed firmly against her skin
to silence any notions of her nonsense. the crickets gave
a song from their loins that our ears drank in
like the waining gibbous drank in its own moonlight.
i can smell the elements around me, aboard the construction equipment
readying to tear down unsightly trees. she asked
if i would read minds if i could but i only saw
four stars in the sky and thought how much
i would rather read those instead—their patterns
match those of the mist made by the lawn sprinklers
as it dances in the streetlights' glow. now is the inclination
of her hips' swagger, the oscillation of the concrete bench
where laughter keeps the urge to kiss at bay.
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