No need to sudden our talk. We watch a park
for a hint of autumn and saver each shiver of leisure,
each dog on a leash, our names placed together,
another small inquiry, the integrity
of a long absence. We slip through principles
of dirt to turnips, pumpkins, and fish
welted with oxygen. Later, a nude man branches
his body to sun in a tunnel with the resolve
to belong and the long gaze
of illusion. A stock of histories. We’re locked
on the view, or the shock of being together
after years of invisible pictures.
We wander with limp soles
and inarticulate consonants repeated, the scarlet
street folded up to lantern through thin
sleeves of glass. When we climb out of the spill,
past dragons and bargains, meat slabs on hooks,
we see the moon wilt over the hill—empty and true.
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