Forgotten Season
Heather Sweeney
lines of thighs
recall present time and rest
in the heart of sand-pressed grass
in a fire blue lapse beyond the canyon
coming apart in hands that fail
to reach to distill a forgotten season
where my church is a wave in reverse
is the seagull’s synapse etching
a cloud into the pollen of your voice
that will not wash away
future fragrance in mangled hair
a face of broken shoreline
a long strand of heat