April 18

Forget it, now, it's become angular again

your palms, parallel, enclosing the ends

of collarbones and slipping

downwards

But what I meant was forget the

shadows, those that swiveled with the

breeze over flesh and cement, and

forked birds' feet

And what I should say is forget the

light, the sleek cause and effect,

bleaching lines in the dirt and

projecting an image of you onto

the lenses of my sunglasses