183 292
seven poems
183
The sun’s drum struck
our eyes that the light and the alcohol and the light
and the alcohol diminished
and the incandescent whites radiated
the solstice I
was turning twenty years old you
had offered me some music I
turned it in my hand and the sun
rotated on the metal tip I
in the short dress traced
a circle of desire we
were sad I believe we
had ascended and the crest
of the tiles pinched petechiae of light
on the skin and you
danced to the sun’s disc and I
spied blind-eyed it was hot we
had drunk and were hot I
was twenty years old we
were the great love.