The Sixth of August

poems from the north, day 3

Droplets on ivy — photo, my own

Today’s air is dense
and devoid of passion
for these humble lungs.

The stone garden girl tips
her hat to me and looks
like she’s up to something.

I want to meet
on the fault line;
close off worlds between.

Not the ones
inhabited with must-dos,
or have-tos.

At the line of extras.
In the line of options.
Over the line lacking questions
in need of answer.

I want them on a plate.
Offered up. Ready to leap
into this verdant valley
I’ve swum for years.

I want to kiss
the me who remembers all
the ways to create a home.

She’s right there,
wrapped up in the ivy
behind this latticed heart.

She folding a fortune
teller and scribbling down
Patanjali’s sutras.