When you took me that day

underneath the boundless crystal sky,

the lutescent sun that could never burn

as fiercely or hotly as our lust,

and the delicate fingers of the clouds

that wished (in vain) to reach with intention

the way our fingers reached toward each other,

we left patches of flattened grass

in the shape of our love in that meadow.

I went back the next day

and they were gone.