First
summer solstice
I find her
all dimples and particular
glances across
moseying between bar stool
and keen detail for storytell
in some small flash of flustered
I let her walk away
without plan
something lighter—less intention
more serendipitous
I find her sky-blue
on something dark and crowded
dance into it with a sense
abandon and maybe enough
vodka to float someone less
historied down the East River
days—two, three, four
and we’re all kisses and smiles
forgetting that readiness is
tiptoeing around each other’s
broken
