On my tartan picnic blanket
we sat in the residual heat
of August sun,
and waited for dog owners to leave.
We stoked our fire
of twigs and husk,
and by the time our shadows were long
I was under
your swinging rosary.
The arms of trees extended like a priest’s to the sky and the
I still wonder what it meant;
as you put your tights back on and I saw your