The Doe-Eyed Girl With Late August Skin

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Time is the quotidian commute of the sun,

the month-long striptease of the moon,

the lazy hammock sway of a metronome

that sits like a Buddha

high atop the lace-covered crest

of a Baby Grand—

in a splash of sunlight

where specks of dust

whirl like dervishes.


Time is the only thing we want

when we’re in love.

And the one thing we cannot bear

lying awake

on the observation deck

of our nighttime bed,

counting the pink dahlias

in the wallpapered meadow

of shadows

that what won’t let go.


Time, in the daylight hours,

is my friend—

the only one who can take me back

to anywhere

but here,

to the threshold moment of 1970,

when the doe-eyed girl

with late August skin

answered the door,

sopping wet hair,

a shirt barely snapped,

a Hula dancer’s smile

whose beauty hit—

point-blank,

I was gone,

falling backward

like Capa’s fallen soldier.


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