June night air, a blanket, embracing.
Soft. Steady. The asphalt ugly to those
who refuse to paint a parking lot, layers
of cream, slate gray, blue, spiderweb cracks,
rivers on a map. Past ten now, the dog park
bare as the grass in the center of the square,
dusty residue of daily paws and beside,
there’s that tree you’re parked under,
and me coming towards you through
the perfect openness of the dark
Hershel Burgh is a queer, Jewish trans man based out of Northwest Arkansas. He lives with his partner in a one bedroom apartment that has no drawers and one cat. His poetry has previously appeared in Eighteen Seventy.