july on Enders Island

a box of red wine and childhood trauma shared
                        between us around midnight or three am,

                                                the night we held stars in our palms

instead of peonies we picked fishing wire 
                        off trees and stripping melancholy, our salt stuck
                                    between sand and shore, the tide imminent

in our throats, soft among those stones 

                        eyes blind from home, what is is only for now
                                    for home is both hinge and lilacs

as we lay humid, here where pond mushrooms

                        in haze where only our bruises shrink

covered in moonbeams