August 2nd

The blood of shooting stars—
arches. Seeking the cooling
touch reaching ever up,
laughing in coyote brush, fields of
lupin and mallow disappeared.

With want and quaking—
expectancy ignites
strikes from the side, splits
right through, falls back,
feels loss in the core

forehead falling to the feet,
insides spilled out, piled up—
half my heart brought down
Though I am aroused.