The solidity of your absence
devours zinnias, punk records,
your green hat on the garden step.
I have learned to avoid certain words
that taste like smoke.
The wind gobbles them up.
He shows me the colors of their undersides,
your skin the interior chambers of clouds.
We are racing each other through
dawn’s streets. Our feet dodge
bougainvillea and memory.
Walk to me backwards,
your arms outstretched.
Tell me a million names for honeysuckle.
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