He’s like a California red
or a tangerine sunset
one where it looks like you could just walk off into the sky.
He’s fresh like sheets still entangled in the weaver’s fingers
or going 80 at 9:45PM in July
when you can smell every blade of grass
and you kiss every single fly.
He’s anything but a quiet night in
Naïve and neon, 2AM and back to dawn.
