of dogs off-leash: the preen and posture, snort
and snuffle, of saying, I smell you
and, therefore, know you. The rolling
on the backs and baring of the bellies.
And the tails! An exaltation of metronomes,
Tasting the green tang of the spittlebug nests
foaming the oat grass, the iron of this
good dirt. A tongue to lick the salt
from your upper lip, the rosary of sweat
risen on your chest. A tongue to tap
the top teeth and suck back like a wave
whose tide rolls out through lips pursed
as though for a kiss.
lifting from your hands—ruffled nylon paradise
bird, with its taut spine and cross spar, the pop
of its ripstop sails, snap of its translucent tails.
the grand view: mountain balds and white water; but mostly
of you—head thrown back, face to the sun, holding
my traceline: tethered to you,
always, responding to the slightest
tick of your fingertips. Let me be a kite that trusts itself
to the sky.
