the sun is just
lovely. just lovely.
tennis

with cheap racquets
in our white
slip-on

shoes, pauses for fizzy
liquids, to swipe
branches of sweat.

so lovely
the sun and I could
let you captivate me

here for the rest
of the summer, then another
summer if we

keep doing
the things we love
to do now, if we poorly

play tennis in the sun
and don't forget it is lovely.
this. summer.

Mentally I am at Phillies with my final
coffee of the evening, milk
frothed to perfection, a woman
in a cerise blouse who greets
my eyes with a noiseless hello

but this is not 1942, no
salt shakers and once-
bitten sandwiches.
There's a child in a red puffer
who waddles absentmindedly,

the spittle of his bearded father
I can almost feel fleck
my cheek. His tired cherry-lipped mother
pointing a finger, then
another, mouths opening

as if operated
by an unseen string and strangers
who scoff at the hawks in the room,
both jolted by each other's next barb,
with a toddler oblivious to art, to

shades, to the thorns his loved
ones drape across their throats,
this spat like a blot on the canvas
of my afternoon reverie
where I need a stronger tipple

and to make it home before the rain.

The air dense with the prospect
of something quite dangerous
but delicious, the way
a body sways in shadow, memories
on the floor in a many-limbed
black knot                    but someone’s skin and
someone’s skin touches in
the space between strobe lights
with a movement fluid, sensual,
snap of a signal,
electrical, audible pulse and temples
in sweat sets them in motion,
a parallel language
spoken with the eyes,
fingers on waist.

maybe now it begins
     the dust made a home
     on the half-halcyon years

enough easing in
     they'll be expecting you slowly
     but consistently enough

to chalk up the highlights
     that make a fulfilled life
     alone or not alone

but with an always orange glow
     flame tilts to change
     wax drips to history

All our friends are leaving
so let's tie ourselves
together with orange ribbons,

watch the strangers
in their sandals eat
freshly baked bread

and say isn't the weather
just glorious today, I could spend
the whole afternoon outside

letting the sun hit my body,
a gift for the skin,
or is it us saying that

in a European city sometime
in July, eating oranges and accepting
whatever form of love this is.

I.

fog-clogged atmosphere
naked unearthly structures
loom with static limbs

---

II.

crispy chunks of spuds
gift-wrapped meat nudge sliced white bird
paper crowns for all

---

III.

to next year thoughts turn
last days unfurl post-Noel
with dawn's frosted tongue

splice of sky
like a nerve pinched
to nick the horizon

     temporary fissure
     thorns that blind
     make the whitest tears
    
storm illuminate
with electricity lick
missable schism

    but for its remains
    protest from beyond
    as though disturbed sleep