The memory of you and I
walking palm in palm
along a Norwalk cornfield
will play over and over
in a compartment of your mind
like the aviation alphabet.
You were quiet like a sub-zero
morning on Storm Lake;
I babbled like a talk show guest
during commercial break.
Your aura linear and structured as a math formula;
mine, fluid and unpredictable like table wine.
You wore black and white
as if the absence and presence of light
were tailored for you.
I kept pace in a flurry of prismatic color.
We watched a street light flicker
like an outdated sparkler on the Fourth of July.
During a picnic of Zinfandel
beneath the glance of an August moon,
the hair on your legs motioned me.
I memorized the outline of your left thigh
as you spoke a paragraph of Braille
inside my mouth.
For eight months I traced the silhouette of you
upon my long-vacant bed sheets.
Now, beneath perspiration and peeling paint
we rise and fall like five a.m. bread baking.
From a doorway we disappear into sunlight.
it keeps us freckled, young.