Even now, summer busies itself
by dragging light up from the earth, 

each flower grown shameless
in the copper fields of dusk. 

There is a world beyond this one
where memory outlives the body 

and longing concludes inside each breath,
but tonight, too hot to sleep, 

you wet your hair and lie atop our sheets
until our bodies grow over each other 

like strange notions of heaven—
like cemetery grass, gone wild in spring.