for Cosimo
On earth I had nothing to do but bleed.
We had gotten into the habit of sharing dreams.
The mud in the favela.
Trucksters.
A lake.
—when I asked
you told me it had been at a lake,
you had been picnicking with family.
On the east side behind the red
lights I was cold in a dress and high
on future memory.
Somehow I already knew
I wouldn’t ever forget it, the way
the petals came down hard.
I was delirious.
Time suckled itself.
So many mornings you told me
you had spent all night in an orchard,
between the soft touches of leaves.
In your arms I was like
an overripe peach.
A bit of the brittle
in the heartwood. I knew
you would never come down for me.