Cliche'
let us say the summer that year
was a cliché to its lovers.
And its once open windows stood
firm
against Prying Eyes.
Perhaps the silver
smoke of automobiles rose toward the waiting sun that
climbed so eagerly. we didn’t know.
Summer was a witness
A watcher
Tracking our movements, counting our
numbered pulse beats
our Numbered Kisses
—of sweet desert rain
when the creosote bush was thick in the air—
our crimson liquids
moving fast through
the chalks of our skin
And the rouge on your cheek seemed
almost translucent to me
as time itself, sifting between
Hourglasses broken shattered
With memories tainted
stained—
and let us say that Dandelion perfume lingered on our parted lips
—it was pungent, maybe, as the saline tears
where lashes are sieves—
clinging to the pads of our fingers.
our identities
veiled by tiny white seeds
that may,
In the winter (when the sun cracks along its crevices
like melons in the heat),
bury themselves deep into our pores, Waiting
For that last Dandelion seed
to surrender
|