I don’t want it all back
just that one morning
when I put my phone on the bumper
and you wore that orange shirt dress
and shook your head
at the idea that everything was going to
work out
that the angle was right
not to cut off our heads
not to slip off the bumper
when the ten second timer hit
not to have a hundred shots of sky
on nights like this
in the middle of the moon
when the phone has six thousand pics
and only one
of big hair an ebony hue an orange blur
and endless
endless
blue sky
.
.
.
. (Oh, well…)
Jas. Mardis
