it can’t all be cast to the tan lines.
The sun—our cicerone across
this celestial plane, casting
her silhouettes upon skin shapes
etch-a-sketching that which we outfit ourselves with—
That can’t be it.
I see him
legs crossed on the stone bench, bright
in some flaming orange frame of mind,
overburdened and hand-fluttering
tucking ponytail hair behind one ear
and listening to him
spinning rap and downbeats
that smell like Jemima’s syrup
using hand gestures he learned
and her and him and me
we all wear our white Che Guevara t-shirts
and let the sun burn it in.
Does it all come down
to the last haircut?
The many ways we hold up
measuring tapes against time,
wide-eyed and fascinated
by how long it takes, how long we’ve got left.
To the left
is a path of rocks, sharp and shifty
infinite in precision, a rocky tango
feet dance, leap the shapelessness avoid the pain.
To the right
is a grassy hill, unfurled like fruit roll-ups
real slow we tuck into balls against ourselves,
feel the grass like satin thumbs against our skin
I’ve heard it said
that value is attention
is attention to the ground. Presence
without context. Physical currency
is attention to sensation
in the full breadth of context–raw. Youth.
I rub my index finger across
my skin and look at it.
There are soft, imprinted marks
of satin thumbs kissing up against sweaty skin
a loving amount
of it all; casting silhouettes and shapes
of criss-cross happenstance I’ve rolled over
like a paint roller ready for the front porch.
Surely this is closer.