We’re on our way back from the river,
your eyes raw bone.

Quarantined together in a tiny fiat 500,
I sit still with legs

slightly apart staring off to the right
ignoring the black line approaching

to smudge me out.

Drawn and worn as
long as the April sky,

your silence is
the dark punctuation of the day.

I’m green shoots, flowers, bumblebees
waiting to go home, back into the yellow heat,

with love everywhere waiting.