you were

dancing with summer and her heat-wave knees.

you were trying to wear down asphalt

with butterfly kisses. you were

licking every goddamn window in the house

in case of condensation when bodily fluids

were not enough. you were using the 2 a.m. refrigerator hum

for music while the

ice-dispenser’s lighthouse

moonlit each night away

as the sun. then

sweat held her small memory of ocean

salt-duned across the skin & you lay, cool, against the linoleum.

you thought maybe heaven

was a flight of ash. or that maybe we only have

teratoma dreams

in this day & age. you burnt your knuckles on heat lightning,

closed your eyes & became leaves

winging from a tree.

the next hungover morning had legs

longer than requiems. you made pictures

using only the trembling motion

of your hands. something scarlet was left behind in your cheeks, a kiss

from your grandfather. there you lay,

bare spine pressed against

yesterday’s crumbs/ contemporary

of the ice-dispenser.