Archaeologists rut in the dirt right where they dig.

Rocky Mountain rain and a little snow melt from the peak.
“You can drink the water straight from the stream here.”
Make your hands a cup
“they look like a dog’s ear” you giggle
ladle into the rivulet
bring the water to your sun parched, canvas tongue,
chapped lip.
I wanna put you into a bliss.
The kinda sated luxury that only comes from total hydration.
I would offer up my veins if you claimed thirst.
Your stare is kinda sharp and it perforates me
so I may come apart easily in your pull.
You’re not even out of breath
from the hike and I am heaving with that
cold lung burn
only an ex-smoker can relate.
I need a dab of grace. A hug and a little pathos.
Bare witness.
The canopy of conifer offers afternoon relief
the deathless stare into the light,
the two little clouds in the sky we name.
Skipper and Paul.
it’s the feeling you get…
that feeling you get when you know
you’re spinning out.
Around you things turn dirty yellow,
because everything living envies your vitality.
Taking our brief rest
You lean your body into mine.
Head on my shoulder
attempting to readjust gravity.
I am so schoolboy nervous/ Lit up to love you
palpitating like the vinyl that skips, that skips,
that skips, sk…sk…sk…skips
From your backpack you remove
a pre-packaged club salad,
you offer me your tomatoes cuz you don’t like them.
sucked the ranch straight from the packet, ewww
and show me your sketchbook
All your drawings look real great!
I am fascinated by the anthropology of you.
This feels monumental.


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