Skip to main content

Heart Swathing in Late Summer

ISSUE:  Spring 2017

In the penumbra of an oak under sculpted
Moonlight, we pile the last waking hours

On our faces, breathe the wilderness of dry
Heat waiting for fall ventilations. It feels

Later than it is and the air is already mouthing
The date for tomorrow. At least now, our eyes

Can fall into the craters of a waterproof
Reflection, and we stop for a moment to fill

Ourselves with the kind of light that can only
Be found in the dark. What is night if not for

It being a repetition of unlit squares glued
Jointly, plastered against the thought of midday.

What is not seeing but to echolocate a name.
It’s how I find your chin when I can’t sense

The meaning of your hands. Weeks ago, it was
Astral rebounds, shiny hinges. We harvested

The fertile Perseids posed recumbent
In the back of a flatbed, tallying the mineral

Opulence reserved for those who wait. Not
Ever so many in return. Now this moon in its

Entirety has never looked so much like
A distant circular kite set ablaze, doused by

The kind of burning a man feels when he hears
The humming of rain against a woman’s bare neck.


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading