Movement by Benjamin Evans Summer flickers like an A.M. station. September dusk is bruised pear or peach. Thick-tongued and chivalrous we tango, measure the writhe of whiskey on your father’s land. You talk of art: the emptying, filling, and thickening of free fluids that refuse to coalesce. I whisper of science: the whir, drip, and ripple of a woman’s fiendish physics. In Boulder we snuck behind the teahouse, returned to the streets in a stick of fruit and wonder. In Monmartre when flakes spun fat, we freckled snow with mulled wine and laughed ash. All history burned for warmth, kindling for the fire lighting our specious dance. theMeadow 105
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