dess

I want him to kiss me under the dying dogwood
In the yard next to my morning bus stop
The once pink-and-white fragrance already tinged with the kitsch-summer-60s-kitchen-tile-yellow
While the petals fly away in the too-late-for-April breezes
At the end of "A Song For Our Grandfathers"
I want that age
Show me how your fingers settle around the back of a petite human head
Close your eyes in that way
whenever the music tells you to