Locus

When the cop cars’ spotlights roved the bank where we’d been skinny-dipping all those years ago we ducked into the field, lay parallel in a furrow to wait them out. My arm brushed yours. That much I recall. Our nakedness bright against the spinning dark of that wind-tossed field. And though the past still springs up like a Swiss Army blade, I see us not as I would’ve seen us then, but from above: two specks, two hungry white specks, in God’s feral iris.