Maybe it’s an ocean swim, summer rain, strong coffee,
to hear my mother’s voice back when she could save me.
Maybe it is love, the filament in every lightening bulb: the juice, the nectar, the buzz.
Every season a peach falls in winter only because it didn’t know it couldn’t, but to tell you the truth my lips are cracked.
I don’t know if you were right or I was wrong, and anyway maybe
it’s not what you give, it’s how you apply it
Gently now, honey, where the skin is torn.