a little pitter pat of getaway romance
in melting yellow sun, we rolled together
each in our olive drab flannel bags
close enough that the stray tentacles
of your strawberry gray hair
flirt with my eyelash and nose
we stretch and roll
out under honest purple mountains
that majestically mirror lake
and sky and butter stick packaging
our field guides open in morning’s
grass pasture, goldfinches too
are here for salted songs and delicate
footfalls by the AM’s cooing light
downy milk pours from white hilltop
sweet cream churned by antler
soon, a blue flame will tickle
the underbelly of the old
green two-burner
Coleman stove
and as from a magic
black top hat, I will pull
peppered eggs
and buttered toast
_________________
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