I think summer, I think you.
You, this body. This, this body.
Here, summer. Here, tongue.
I think repetitions repetitiously and wonder
if cicadas know the word
caesura. I think grass and thistle and glass,
a violence in the play of yellow wildflowers
and super blooms of intimacy and care
holding your head close to my knee
What’s the line if there’s a there there,
there here with us, now, here. The play
of body and the play of this yellow wildflower
tucked away behind a year, your ear, under fabric,
a pantyline, the way sun plays on tiny hairs where
I put another flower here below a tattoo of an arrow
below your arm – a towel thrown across
grass across your body and mine.
Words by Nik De Dominic