by Zachary Lundgren
This weekend, July would only
the rope-swing from last summer had snapped
In this new quiet, the sun
anointed our forearms, played alchemy
with our hair.
I wondered if the heat could taste these words
but a dog barked – staled our thoughts
like blueberries drying
on the tongue.
We looked. We couldn’t see anything
except the heat. We thought we understood