Falling Glare

Matthew Hill
Featured Image: Handles © Zacha Fuster 2017


Sell me summer’s spite:
take me to the sticky-sweet
orange fruit on your fingers,

running down meadows
so green, we always forget
the skin-slap of pavement, pall

of red city dust.
Met you wide on the water
that night, the simmering moon

all milky pretense,
and afterwards, among owls
hunting crickets crying loud

from the underbrush,
I could not cull the new sweat
from the day’s first flecks of dew,

from a tongue so dry
in my mouth: incongruous,
it seemed, in the heavy air.

Each inch of sun stays:
the highway rumble out east
bellowing through my windows,

the skyline so soft
in the falling glare. Ask me
what music I heard through the trees,

what wet words you spoke
in that slick afternoon heat:
I could tell you everything.