I was afraid our happenings were told and gone
that nothing would happen again.
Our guest room– opening us to the eastern
hills: deep, or maybe just angular,
promises, or maybe just impressions of wilderness.
Humid grays and brambling human stick figures.
The moon more moderately fixed, disengaged
from us and the blackening yard.

Our night talk germinated with cicada season.
Green wing veins– wording their way.
The airy divisions sing
to have sex
and have sex to die back
into the trees. We didn’t make it out that day.
Anteater shaped thunderclouds kept circling
against the light; bristled shoulder blades and bleating.
You told me to wait a little while
why can’t I just be happy. Two teacups,
two crumpled room-service roses.
Rain, so rich smelling

but I’m the one slanting it now
in methodically timed intermissions

to a few star-kernels per bottle. My milk cups the last
few hours into honeycomb shapes and equations.
Maybe baby tastes the morning’s
chia seeds, speckled in the cereal bowl
like fleas. Sugared, cloud-swarms, their families move
like splatter. Baby sleeps in my white
wine lollop. What’s warm, what rattles-
dream sails checkered into doily sheets.
Probably, baby sees landscapes differently:

the hills thick, rather, orderly.

The armadillo clouds. The radical moon.