ripening

sweat licks our ankles and you lick the dull of your knife. June tongues its way into every opening. in the meantime, crumbs rain from the puddle of tables seeping onto the sidewalk, a rat bloated with appetizers swaggering between their legs. looking for a fourtop to finish up. a salad steams at our elbows, one vine poked out like a leg out of the comforter, and we each pluck an onion to eat with our fingers. all the water sweats out of our glasses and the sun takes forever to drip down the horizon, so i call the server back to order the moon. i want to spread across toast. i want a spoonful of morning grass, a slice of hallway marble frosted with condensation, a glass of February Pacific ocean. instead, my mouth moves and nothing comes out. hot air hisses in. instead, we tilt our faces to the remaining light. instead, we let ourselves ripen.