Dogs pace, measuring the airlessness
with each paw that lands.
My feet, treading on concrete the
temperature of new ash—
embers, relics of solstice.
There is no generation between
the girl and the woman, as I sway
and toss affection towards the
panting blue moon.
The hem of your shirt, warm as flanks,
tosses me a sultry glance.
Your hands have become vestiges,
sloping and slouching around my
body, kindling, like a sweltering blaze.
A summer spell, a new epoch.