you no longer have to wonder whether her scent is meant for you.
You won’t believe what happened next.
past the trailing arbutus—
crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons
pale clumps of mountain laurel light our way
slumming it in the leaf duff still looks fabulous
fine hairs stirring from the photographer’s breath
two missing petals but still an immaculate shadow
I jangle the loose change in my pocket
take aim at the overcast sky
the two goldenrod stalks topple together
the buzzing gets louder every time the wind blows