It’s ok to taste the blue, the
vast summer sky, butter-warm,
and let it spill down your chest;
and to grin through liquid glaze
still on your chin at midnight,
sparkling on your forearm and the
back of your hand where you’d wiped it.
My God, look at you:
your swim-wet hair is drying poofy
and your stunner face is pure goofy–
easily parlayed to lust.
Sun evaporating limbs rinsed of dust
but leaving salt.
After Labor Day,
summer grounds to a halt,
just ask your boss.
Meanwhile, it’s fine to like this
long hot afternoon, to doze in
thawed shade on shells and stones
in your wide-awake bones.