page 105

happiness is a butterfly.

oh but joy,

joy is the life of a butterfly.

:::

all the world said,

I am your oyster!

on its palate,

where is it i begin to form?

:::

never never never stop investigating;

at the resolve of one mystery,
love keeps us curious still.

:::

the crunching of gravel

under our shoes is out-of-sync.

the cicadas buzz like small tornado sirens.

i keep exchanging my looks between

your eyes and mouth and the ground.

tall, wild grass has grown between the tire tracks.

you walking on one, me on the other.

i talk and then you talk. you talk and then i talk.

wind starts to sing with the cicadas in the trees.

i rub my hand along the outside of my forearm,

hugging my body inward. you look up at the sky.

we keep talking. exchanging between a face and the ground.

a second conversation takes place;

rain begins to talk with the waxy surface of the leaves

and ground cover on the path.

"what do we do?"

our hands make for unsuitable umbrellas.

"i don't know. we could wait it out or just screw it

and keep walking."

exchanging eyes with eyes...

only the rain, ground cover, and leaves talk.

     i need to make noise.

i outstretch my arms and let drops dissolve

on my tongue, dripping under the cave of my lips.

i make that noise doctors ask you to say

when they want to check your tongue.

     the tall, wild grass on the path is only ankle high.

exchanging laughs. eyes. now, a tall, wild look.

my eyes return to the gravel. 

you ask, "should we keep walking?"

"...yeah. let's, uh, let's keep walking."

we start walking again.

     i want to cover you like the rain too.

     yet, i intend on keeping the grass tall between us.