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.