Lake House

Lift your face up so I can see
blue bird, pork roast, lavender.
The small of your back, humped
skin, goose bumps, baby hairs.
Humidity sticks to the ribs,
like oatmeal, or sausage. Content
in the smeared landscape, a lake
with blue pudding water, dappled
with light. I caress the tungsten
oar and push the boat further afield.
City trucks are a memory now
almost erased by bare feet, a wooden
dock, the smell of Coppertone.
The fever of forgetting everything
what was I thinking before you?