Dusk takes a bow rake to its sweetheart
puddles. Sallies slip into red clay mud, nitrogen
contaminant permeating their velvety
salt lick of skin. Mother turns the tongues
of our boots out, upturns the hubcap
and rebar sundial, draws the curtains
so we can be ourselves.
Upstairs wind scratches
screen rust. The waft of wisteria rot
lifts and catches the fresh lumber
smell of the wet sill.
Head on a pillow
of swimming hole-side clothes,
bare feet tugging the sheets
until she falls asleep, to cat
through the night-aired backyard
and question the left equipment
with the scent glands of our hands.