Step out from the shade
and the day’s an empty street,
an entire town asleep
in deference
to the white-walled heat.
We’ll wait, with the cork oak
for company, its toothed leaves
no longer green, but fragrant
as the winding road
up to the winery.
Slack as cats drowsing,
unconscious as the sea,
we’ll soften into the base
of this tree,
our tree, so long
as we delay.

We tamp the lawn
in soft-sole moccasins.
Bee bones
crush quietly.
Too many thirsty bees
sweep our lawn
for sips—low-flyer, insect fire
putter-outer, you wet powder
strung together, you small sting
in hand.

Cloud cover insulates our early hours
from the clear blue of afternoon.
A muffled light mothers us
down avenues, just a hint
of the outdoors
on our forearms.
Emptier skies will swim
in our unadjusted eyes
when the sun has nothing left
to burn through. For now, we’ll shelter
under water vapor eaves, at ease
with shapeless shapes, ambiguity.