Sand gathered in theorems near wood cracks
brine pieced, crusting as frost over
cupped lip incisions
something like shells broken on the stairs

And heat is the soft hegemony of
your swept hair
pooled over me and wicker
ribbed knuckles gleaning serif and salt

When you contemplate the walls you understand
the last sip of lemonade
the drying syrup circlet
the porch light


of all the poems about you and me
this is the best
(because it doesn't mean anything)