The locust trees on our cul de sac sip the sugared clouds at dusk.
No one here is thirsting.
We dance on our backs,
dream of a world without deserts—
mouthfuls of cinnamon sticks and sticky figs.
We taste the tailwind messages
whispering to us in waves across the late spring sky.
Sweet heaviness settles in smooth over the sidewalk cracks.
Without a hint of longing, the sun slips like a needless camel
from the corners of our eyes.