Ironing the armpit of my dress shirt
a thick and sweet stink coming up in the steam

Outside a tree in between two row homes is starved for sun
a child’s bare feet gripping its roots

And yesterday the orange balloon you held at the pier
was soaked with light, floating over your head like a thought bubble in a cartoon

The sky the flavor of your voice coming into mine
the old wooden pier, moistened like a reed,
ready to play

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