I carried into the summer
that animal hunger took
vodka with ginger ale on
the plane. Missed your teeth.
We, the vicious. We stared
at fevers bursting from our chests
for each other for our needs
not being met. You get home,
I get home. Too late for lingering
I picture you rooted in a perishing
southern city writing a myth
about us: it is a July sadness.
It is August last. We, the red.
The maple terror. In heavy rain
we pretend to be cold to press
against those rages the regions
of our summer playing out tearing
us up. I am so close to letting
you ask questions to standing
at your door asking to swim
in your late summer heat asking
you to make it to the pool with me
after it closes and leap into dark
humid waters us two the ones
whose lips glowed in the current
of each other's breath.