After School of Seven Bells
The longer I stay
the more our lawn feels like
tiny hands surfing us through a concert,
tree limbs booming bass through our bones
and clouds coming inside of us
cymbal crash kick drummy good.
One cigarette split index thumb like
shouting names across peaks over a mile wide valley.
None of them our own
and answering the same
with a new one until the sun goes down
and life really begins.
Sitting rubbing palms close to fire and
wondering if you do the same
on the slope of your mountain,
your dinosaur near, curled, scales to skin,
trapping heat so your head laid down rests easy too.
