Under the stars,
in an evergreen clearing,
our cheeks red for red wine,
Anna and I lay in the summer
dirt, watching dust
rip color from the atmosphere
Wind stirs ember and flame
inside our blackened ring of river rock,
raising plumes of fleeting sparks
Touching my arm
where the surgeon we shared on her birthday
sewed me up, Anna reaches over me
for the bottle
Beneath
this massive constellation, we whisper
superlatives, arguing
whether the brilliant sky is something
we are “submerged in” or are
“about to be
engulfed by”
