R & R

The curve of her hip where I’d lay my head, that’s what I’m thinking of now, her fingers gone slow through my hair on a blue day ten thousand miles off in the future somewhere, where the beer is so cold it sweats in your hand, cool as her kissing you with crushed ice, her tongue wet with blackberry and melon. That’s what I’m thinking of now. Because I’m all out of adrenaline, all out of smoking incendiaries. Somewhere deep in the landscape of the brain, under the skull’s blue curving dome— that’s where I am now, swaying in a hammock by the water’s edge as soldiers laugh and play volleyball just down the beach, while others tan and talk with the nurses who bring pills to help them sleep. And if this is crazy, then let this be my sanatorium, let the doctors walk among us here marking their charts as they will. I have a lover with hair that falls like autumn leaves on my skin. Water that rolls in smooth and cool as anesthesia. Birds that carry all my bullets into the barrel of the sun.