Evening, July

Jessica Athens

We sit like yogis balanced
on a wooden finger
buffeted by the heave of
surf

Inhaling the fresh
rot of lake
laden with sun;
exhaling memories
and still-born ideas.

Nascence and
decay
filter through pinpricks
of lung, shuttling toward
a thumping
fist.

When air hits,
the heart's fingers
relax
a luminous coin
cradled in its
palm.