Summer, So Full
Not the noble storm
of sunlight,
but the last doe-eyed
days, the thing in itself,
falcons coasting
on updrafts,
bougainvillea in bloom
and the dark high-res
glimmering indigo.
In this flash of indecision
the lips reach
for the warmed body
and the neck turns
toward shadow.
The rattling in the leaves
as your dress
settles in your lap —
and heavenly, precious
light breathes between
the slatted trees,
all eyes gaze upward
addressing the clouds
and their cloudwork,
a music without sound
drifts us into waking dreams —
a magnetism
stirring the head
and in the feet,
sorrow, fiction
just days before the fall,
before the swollen garden
flickers out,
before the moon rises
clear out of your skull.