another end-of-semester revision-

Creosote
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Before, when we crested the shadowed shoulder of the hill,
the liquid sun glanced back at us
on its way out of the sky.

Our cheeks brushed, and your warmth
was the desert rose and pink copper
of the sunset's last breath.

In the dark, however, it is your whispered
footsteps I follow, without the light.

The honeysuckle pollen of an ocotillo flower
tastes red when your lips touch mine,

and the last caress of your skin
smells like rain.