Stay at the yellow house tonight
where you'll find a few magenta raspberries in a glass bowl
aromatic but surprisingly tart
then stand in the uncertain early evening
red pajama pants and a squeezing tank top
(gray sky riddled with gold)
and find that he fills your mind
with the reckless gravity of flowers filling a vase

Later the sky will deepen into plum or indigo
and polished pink nails will start drumming on the steering wheel
tanned hands (adept at baking bread and choking weeds)
and narrowed eyes that are critically hazel
you'll watch her texting Maggie
"I'm here" "I'm outside" "You have 1 minute and I'm going home"
a lifting breeze may give the conviction of his hand in your hair
and as you round each corner you may bite your lip in frustration

Tonight the waning moon will be like an aerialist
(bust and stomach bursting out, head and ankles launched back)
you may find the porch peppered with powder-pink petals and glass
you may find cupcakes in the kitchen and ants in the cupcakes
like shipwreck survivors swimming in bright frosting
you may find that walking to his house is like walking across a piano
like misplaying ivory notes with the arches and heels of your feet

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