Cliche'

let us say the summer that year was a cliché to its lovers. And its once open windows stood firm against Prying Eyes. Perhaps the silver smoke of automobiles rose toward the waiting sun that climbed so eagerly. we didn’t know. Summer was a witness A watcher Tracking our movements, counting our numbered pulse beats our Numbered Kisses —of sweet desert rain when the creosote bush was thick in the air— our crimson liquids moving fast through the chalks of our skin And the rouge on your cheek seemed almost translucent to me as time itself, sifting between Hourglasses broken shattered With memories tainted stained— and let us say that Dandelion perfume lingered on our parted lips —it was pungent, maybe, as the saline tears where lashes are sieves— clinging to the pads of our fingers. our identities veiled by tiny white seeds that may, In the winter (when the sun cracks along its crevices like melons in the heat), bury themselves deep into our pores, Waiting For that last Dandelion seed to surrender