creation

we didn’t belong, and yet we did.
humans always paste themselves back into the narrative –
we vowed: for better, for worse and meant it –
cuz here we are in august blue, you scrap-booked on the sky
and me boundary-lined on what could be road or river,
though you can’t sink in a picture. i no longer remember
if we tripped into all this green, or whether the world
shaped around us, embarrassed / exhilarated to be seen.
my upstretched hand mimics the tree, the tree grew
to chase my hand – and i’m foreground, baby,
the grass is an after-thought, although it matters more.
without us, they would call this scene “erasure”, with us
it becomes a dance, one that is somewhat peculiar
and lovely; the cloud fills the room like a chance
encounter. and this is it – the hills, the sky and us –
you’re looking right and i’m looking to the viewer
who isn’t there yet, waiting for them to look away.