Pollen drifts from vine-choked rafters, falling
like the sparks that flew when we were young.
Powder-fine mounds of gold-flecked dust
collects on the plains of your body. It settles

on your lips, the rim of your mouth open
wide as your whole face, like a hungry baby bird.
You're waiting to take another drink, to feel again
that molten amber searing your tortured throat. Wilting

red and white flowers break loose from the tangle
of skunk vine overhead. They fall only to be trapped
by your creaking joints, covering your outstretched arms
in specks of organic decay that cling to my fingers.

Like long exposure photographs you are hazy and alive
in the subdued light. Your latex skin, like mine, is cracked
and scarred with age, and though your gritty edges are
obscured in green shadows, these hands know all of you.