Our fingers are thick with citrus
and a grey face has risen high over the kitchen clock
and fallen low again.
We are celebratory .
Crashing through the wet air, we
take off our blankets and celebrate again
our nakedness, thrown forward,
puzzling, and bright.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
by Bianca Stewart
Last time we went swimming
the sea stood up and hugged you
as though you were responsible
for keeping it blue