Maybe this is it.
A sliver of light from a star
causing afternoon
diagonal across the stucco wall.
Dragonfly somewhere to the left.
breath of summer.

God is all over this place
and I’m drinking tequila.

Here,
with this glass of dirty water
a collection of bones, I
scooped idle in a lawn chair,
feel
this memory that wails
against the chest
from the inside.

Here,
drunk and longing,
we troubled specks in the beam,
putter around
picking up illusions to adore
and to suffer by.
It’s easier
to make the small things big,
and the big things peripheral.
I know
because otherwise,
I open
and my chest breaks
into a terror of love
for beholding
this ugly stucco wall
and I don’t know myself
from starlight.