I bet your yard is dank with rain this week.
The ground here is dry; it comes up in gusts
and suckles at my skin for sweat. Peter farms
his yard, determined. I watch him, determined
not to think of you. And not to tell him nothing
much will grow. He knows. Antiseptic scent of hot
cilantro. Whine of water from the hose. I missed you
yesterday. Today, it’s just dust against me. He looks
pathetic in his porous flower beds, his little thrill
of water disappearing. Once, I wanted you to change.
Now, each of us is wanting. None of us knows what for.
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