We are not as elegant as marble
But we are trying
Living our fantasies together
In public parks
The erection of wildflowers
Laps space between us
Orange flowers and cherry lip balm
She drinks whipped cream
Through a pink straw
I touch her affectionately in public
And it is dangerous
Men approach us frequently
Wanting something
We do not want to give
In place of affection she observes the sky
Where form ends and where it begins
Takes a photo of me
Applies a filter
Posts it
I duplicate, expand
She talks softly, like the hue of something
Gently becoming something else
I watch her and I am moved
By that of her which flashes before my engine
The archaeologist’s daughter grew up in tombs. She spent her early childhood crawling through the volcanic ash, which preserved time. Her father dug tunnels in the ground, uncovered death masks, stumbled upon bones of winged beasts, while her baby hands clutched the cold earth.