The sky impossibly
dark above us, pin-
pricks of stars like
exit lights as we
walk the field
of fireflies,
the seam between
the sky and earth
painted over in black
ink, my hand wrapped
around her hair: an
anchor to the wet
grass against my back
& the low murmur
of frogs.
We slough off
our shorts and
spill into the
pond not quite
covered by
the fronds
of grass.
You could have
seen us from
the road but
you did not,
nor did you see
the salted mud
or the sea tangle
thick as her hair,
another anchor
to the adjacent
world.
As she turned,
I prayed
for three close-ups
that, if they should fade,
would fade slowly:
the straw hat
shading her eyes
the boots reaching
her dirt-covered knees
the purple loosestrife
oh the purple loosestrife
slick with light