space is where all the good stuff is happening
grass – we used to hide and come.
sand – the pain still in our bones today.
grass and sands –
at night we lie on aching backs
thighs open to the skies
offering ourselves to
some other home imagined.
the old man on a bike.
dry the lips on the mouthpiece,
dry the summer –
tender the fingers on the string.
the drum has no skin
yet the song its beat –
we still sing.