Mustard-patched sweat on skin
damp and oily, suddenly licked
wide & clear
with a salty breeze.

The rose blooms tonight.
For my part, I shall bear witness;
there is nothing quite like
the blooming of a rose.

Here & there
the lizard scampers, his sticky feet
like suction cups on washed bathroom tile.
Kiss after kiss
he skims a shadowy white fence
homeward bound.
He takes me with him;
a version of me wraps arms around his neck
as we leap
along the white fence.

The sun
can no longer be bothered with us.
She’s homeward bound herself,
lazy & at ease
yawning down a cotton-purple cloud line.
The breeze is her surreptitious daughter;
she cackles,
& lifts the hair from my neck
in hot salty gusts;
then tucks her head against my shoulder
to whisper, cool and delicious against my ear.

Recklessly irregular & in delight
with herself is the breeze in her youth.

We pause together
for only a moment
to watch the rose bloom.