Outside

Firework gun-pocks

We lay inside on your

Mattress touching

In silence entwined

Entropic entangled

I wanted to hold those

Distant bursts of light in

The palm of my hand

Press them together so here

We could explode

Green and gold

No watchers

Pulp and Circumstance

Summer arrived. What

I wanted more

than anything was

lemonade. Hands grinding

halved fruit onto

that vaulted star,

I wrung a 

cup for you

before your flight.

Left behind was

sticky pulp, stink

on my fingers,

and rind beneath

my nails. Mixing

unequal parts simple

syrup and citrus,

I added sugar

to taste, desperate

not to erase

your bitter tang.