Soft is the
night
yellow misty
in the throw-glow
of
streetlights.
In the hour
of time stops
we walk
between sidewalks.
In our hands,
the sound of
eucalyptus
and front yard flower beds
dripping warm
maple
syrup-sweet.
Noh-traffic
tattoo
footsteps and
fingerprint cartwheels
in the middle
of the street.
Where I lost
myself, leaning back
on every tree
I will ever touch
after this
feels like
first kissing
warm rain.
For my Inamorata
Sighs
