wrote this in July when it apparently snowed.

Won’t you anchor me to the soft sand beneath your feet?
Won’t you take off my gloves,
have our lips lock?
Won’t you become a piece
of the beach and breeze,
as it all comes alive in your sweet talk?

And when you lift my head,
I’ll divide my lips.
My drunken self will blather in a lisp.
My reddened cheeks will ooze this bliss
as my tired mind quivers for a kiss.

We’ll head on home along this path.
Our bare feet silking along dried grass.
As the blazen sky forms drops of sweat
in our interlocked hands again.

And in an ephemeral epiphany of a bliss,
I’ll squeeze your hand into a fist.
My bony fingers will feel
the tender descend
of raindrops in our hands.

And as the water freezes up
and covers all the nearby shrub,
you will be my joyous cry
of light snow in mid July.


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