Marcus Myers

We shut our mouths for more
           than several turns. In the quiet:

A finger over wine glass,
           a mist on garden leaves.

Then, What's up with the weather?
          Why so stupid? she said.

A wetter June than this. The surface
          temperature deviant.

The shifting flow, icecaps
          disappearing and her hands

between the craftsman
          chair and her thighs

in black denim. Does this
          make you nervous? I said.

What, a low-pressure system?
           No, my wanting you

here on the porch—fearful
          and arrogant—each night.  

Then the giddy sinking below
          the eaves' wisteria again,

as we laughed and stood together
          and stumbled and kissed

beneath the fumy grapes,
          and she led the once-live thing

between us—what we've misnamed
          levity—indoors again.