The last Monday in July, normally
a work day. The sting ray carcass
washed on shore, fried scallops
leave grease on the brown bag.
Hannah orders a side of broccoli
and we share the coleslaw.
It's peeking spring in Brooklyn,
the cherry blossoms on a run,
and the evening that followed
is in my dreams: foggy moon
dancing in the bedroom, between
the sheets we told love secrets.
George says, What are you doing
to me? and we grip the final moments
together under broken stars.