In Chicago,
and its laughing
skirt of cornfields
the dryness like the bone-flesh
of a desert is running under
the long, lean ripples of heat,
the drawl of breath sucked into heat,
the face of a people beginning to ripple.
A rainstorm sizzles open
a quick slit; a fissure
in the tight resistance of sky.
The garbage
outside our apartment
is steaming.
I remember.
The first time I loved you
words melted through whiskey.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
