i saw your smiling freckled face, hiding in
the swamp. with the yellow gloves; duct tape wrapped round each finger, i picked
the dandelions from your white tail and left the burs wrapped around your shoulders to the woods.
i remember,
the bicycle in the fountain we took through the woods.
the tires hiss—like snakes
practicing opera in the green lungs of
the swamp. we ride, two
cartographers of mildew, mapping cattails with our shadows. her freckles
scatter across her cheeks—tiny brown constellations
guiding me
past rusted soda cans
and the cathedral of mosquitoes.
the town behind us coughs up silence.
front yards lean like broken teeth. porch lights blink morse code to no one.
she laughs, and the frogs stop mid-croak,
as if her breath were the law of wind.
i pedal harder—chains grinding, gears chewing on dusk—while she hovers beside me,
a blur of freckles, a saint of damp air and gravel.
the swamp opens its wet mouth, and we disappear, two wheels spinning
into a prayer that only cattails understand.

i want the wind to blow