We do the don't-kiss-me dance
in a cemetery where the sprinklers
kick on, soaking our clothes, the
fertile ground ripe with past lovers,
inverse Pygmalion monuments.
And under our feet, stones sprout
The rhythm goes one two three four
lunge/ duck dodge/thrust. Red/ greenlight
like eight year olds tramping a bed
of bleeding hearts in the crow's yard,
hurling pebbles at her window. They
deflect with small scratches, trickle,
pack the dirt in Common time.
Avoiding definition like clods
of Georgia clay smeared
in your hair by playground bullies.
We were hypothetical kids,
responsible and boring,
sidestepping hopscotch and four
square, the clang of red playground
balls on tarmac, a distant sound.
Dodging you like brutal games,
evasive as Monet's bridge, no more
than varying degrees of shadow
over gooey black water and green
things that are all spine, breaking
the surface, invisible in paint.
tag, illuminating circles and darkening
before iris' can adjust,
squelching your attempts to go
from CÚzanne to Da Vinci.
E. V. Noechel