There was no Baroque drama in our American nostalgia we
let the words slip off our tongues like
summer honey golden in
afternoon twilight thinking
this was the way it was supposed to be just
brushing hips and silences left unwaiting.
She said “I did not know the sun until I
was just seventeen and by then
it already felt like a memory”
lungs embracing the idea of air and
your tea-soaked canvas shoes hung
on the telephone line but
those are the moments that fade away and
manifest destiny always leaves us wanting.