This is what happened. This summer, across the endless shoulderblade of prairie miles, through the mountains (granite teeth, road the crumbling, ageless tongue) spit out on the other side like seeds, all the way from that little grungy city, carried on the feathers of a bird whose bones were steel and organs vinyl, this summer I dreamt of you.

Nestled in orchards, cheeks as soft and flushed as the apples, lying flat on my back on forest floors, handsome when darkness fell. The trees from that angle looked as if they had tumbled upward, away from their roots, unfurling like hands, spines snapping to attention. Thousands of knotted fingers crawling, thrusting against gravity, reaching for the sun.

Body treasured in musty pocket. Dreamt of you beneath open sky, upon the lips of the ocean, her form vast and sensual. The sand was inviting at first, shallowing to house the contours of my body, growing hard later as my eyes fluttered beneath closed flesh. Unwinding in sleep, body seizing up, slowly. Everything slow.