I white-knuckle wash
the morning I opened
a desert field guide, tender
with wildflowers
your mother had pressed.

I rinse the afternoon
we draped knots of past loves
alongside our clothes
and jumped into the lake.

I hang our intentions
as I walk past the junkies
curled by needles
& sunburned
sleeping bags.

All of us holding on
to dying vessels, trying
to last
a little longer.