It’s there, on top of verdant amplitudes
of the rich and restricted golf course
where the golden moon and city’s lights
drain into the river’s source.

It’s there, as we sprint across grass
and tip toe across cement
you ask
(if I were to get caught) “Should I come back?”

It’s there, as the rusting fence
snatches at my clothes
and you encourage me to step on your palms;
I don’t oppose.

Your sweaty fingers
curl in sequence with mine; no worry
I don’t bother to wipe my hand against my jeans
because I’m holding some of the poetry


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