the want ad says you’re the cry of a jackalope in heat. i’m the salve that soothes. we’ll treat each other to snacks in a copse of change decision trees. sip the offbeat array of sassafras. lick crumbs off fingers. we may look agamic from afar, but our outlines will dampen at the picnic. you’ll dream of douglas firs. i’ll hanker for quicker calf-roping times. we’ll both sound the choices we might have made yet still pick each other for our fragrant resins. our cloudy accounts. recalling icons teach with the tilt of hands and head. if only our process shed heat instead of work. if our shade was ink. we’d think to hear a stream nearby that achieves nothing other than being the lowest point. raveling and unraveling separate songs as threads transcribing us. we’ll be each other’s slack end of the same machine. chart a sky in retrograde to misread mysteries. seek hastening. erasing. adjust to spans of seeing. me the rifler’s widow thigh-deep in scarlet phlox. you a canvas inclined against another and another like a short sequence of halls. we’ll dress before the gossip starts in the shallow end of the typing pool. if we clock in late, it’s your loss not mine. i’m exempt and banked sick days. you’ll shine with the smear of ointment and round up tupperware. i’ll finish off the wine. you’ll take my hand with the shyness of an unintended outcome. i’ll flash more shoulder as a reflection of your smile. you’ll hold open the office door. |
