he makes her blush over their differences
and then streaks down roads between flashes of flight,
at home in that dark and its dry-and-hot
– she says to herself –
you and your long-termed priorities,
your pile of love and regrets!
your strengths and successes
collapse in his lap of aware
and now she comes here, comes home
and asks while they hum in wet anticipation
where do the cicadas go in the rain?
deuce coupe 