.
crowds sound like
storms trundling in from the west,
tinny music one
sad thrilling background that smells
like burgers, hot dogs …
.
remember the crack
of bat, swell of radio
cheers against cut grass
and a father’s pause
ho, pull on the beer bottle …
the dull humid heat
.
and one fly buzzing
around the grill, buzzing and
that screen door slaps shut.
In this photograph grass is dirty
blond pelt of earth, blown to
bend inland, blown to
bend over to touch your
flanks the way my hair leaned
in candlelight toward you, your
tender palms currying
my own flanks.
.
In the photograph your black eyes
lock to the lens, keeping you.
.
In this photograph of your lithe
body young by the sea, casual
in its place against earth, intense
in its focus on my hand cradling
a cold camera, every slow
night gone leans inland, arrives
on a new wind
to wake me from age.
orphan poems