You the girl I slathered thick pink gloss on, slick
as the blue raindrops globbing from the gables.
The wind brings it all. The chill and desolate air. You, now, 4:3
and glorious and distant.
Many things beautiful and distant. Also the ads
like cottonwood:
for the dusty purple and orange gorge, gorgeous; for the allergy snort,
for the summer beauty box, the silk shorts, the adaptogen capsules;
for the meditative coloring book; the lingerie, the ketamine therapy;
for the low-cost evaluation. Grass bends
to the hand of the wind—of course.
Cows,
moving like mudslides, make poppyseeds
on the blurry field.
A suspicious cloud exhales in the rearview mirror.
But back then we drew as tight to the storm as thin lips sealed
around a tiny, free lollipop, the weight of our pubescence
as thick as a constellation
of privet blooms. Maybe
we were braver back then, winnower,
whatever this is.