sweat on your lips

and salted clusters,

like peeling the top

off a can of sardines. it’s a hot day

in high summer

and kissing you now

is nothing

like biting an apple.

the grass

goes upward, stacked like knives

in a rack, draining

by the sink.

somewhere

the dog loops through things,

searching for mice

and the lost nests of pigeons.

she’ll come back. nothing

truly gets lost

up here. I suggest one of us

could walk to the car—we forgot

our bottled water

and I’ve had sunstroke

before, which you

never have.

it could be quite

romantic, but we both

are very thirsty. perhaps

I’m paranoid.

we are on a hill

and it’s a beautiful hill—

no trees anywhere.

no shelter,

your dry teeth

no relief.