It’s like breathing. The wet street
steams, after rain wipes it.
You eat the dented apple that
I dropped into the sink. It’s puce,
soft, bruised by ripeness,
and the way I let it fall. The stem twists
into your fingers. I roll a grape
pit in my mouth.
We knead the porch planks with our toes
as if the floor could sink beneath us.
Rise like bread with this heat.
It’s the warmest wood my feet have felt.
Summer makes things smaller,
winnows us away. We will rise, separate,
spread like seed into the street.
The swing smells like lemon rinds,
strawberry juice, melons.
I think of two Spanish women
with brown toes and dusty sundresses,
balancing baskets on their hair.