Wednesday, March 13, 2019

DREAM OF AN AFTERNOON

That lakeside park smell—
of jogger sweat
and hot dogs sailing

mildly on the mossy air;
we stop for lunch—
or maybe

just umbrella
stand tea somewhere
verdant in between

the strange alabaster of
pillared museums.
For a beat or two,

we each stop talking,
having balanced
our hollow bodies

so precisely on that
inadequate sliver
of sunbeam straddling

our over-examined
past—and
insensible future.

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