And how the music spiraled out
like galaxies of spider silk
catching your hair like the sticky
sweet kisses of an infant
who, in sloppy discovery, can see
more than I ever did, in the curls
of your hair and the curves
of your walk, ending inelegant questions
with slow, sad punctuation.
We would creak, squeak
back and forth on swings
stifled by summer's steady hands.
I gave my thorny goodbye,
under moths drifting in lazy imitations
of clouds, but from down there
it looked more like it was snowing.