Mylar love

Topanga. Summer. Night. Flat

rooftop above the coyotes and rattlesnakes,
Scott’s garage our perfect canyon campsite.

Night flickered like the inside of a mylar balloon,
smelled like oak, muérdago, and other dry green things.

We. On our backs. Arms wide open. Electric fingertips
Michaelangelo close on unzipped sleeping bags. Two

Christs laid out by the galaxy, raised up in want
of verging lips, raw skin, tentative hips.

(This poem actually won the Juneau Empire love poem contest in 2002)