i dream of south carolina in august:
foaming at the mouth with red-brick heat and steaming needles
of grass pricking our bare feet, yards of browning green all
sizzling under the burnt orange sun.

the sky won’t interest you.
breathe this clear air under the spruce trees
and willows, dip your dirty hands into that blue, glassy water
gushing over rocks, making them wet and purified.

chain-link fences whisper in the evening
when the earth stretches out to cool—sipping sweet tea and
standing flip-flopped in line at the checkout counter. the
security camera shows us our fortunes for three ninety-nine.

you might fall harder if the ground weren’t softened with pine needles.
everything is lovely when your eyes are this bright
and cobblestone glistens under your feet,
cradling you steady everywhere you think to go.

you’ll stay here, a homage to dead american poets,
looking out over the water, 
trying to pin down the horizon.