It was so hot that you didn’t wear clothes,
only threw the windows and the shutters

wide open and hoped for a breeze.
The nights I couldn’t sleep, even with

only a single sheet. You lay on the bed
all afternoon while I sat and played

guitar, the cool wood against my chest,
until you asked me to stop. We showered

several times a day, sometimes together.
When it got dark, we ate and drank

bottles of wine out on the patio, the sticky air
sweet with the heavy scent of honeysuckle.

It overpowered us. In the afternoons I was
consuming books while you did sketches,

when we could summon the concentration.
Some days we drove to the sea, listening

to Scarlet’s Walk until you pointed out
that we should listen to something more

Spanish. The only thing I could think of
was Sun Kil Moon, but even he sings

about San Francisco over the Spanish
guitar. Still, it complemented the landscapes

we were speeding through, looking like
saturated photos through our sunglasses.

That night I stopped reading Faulkner
and started on the translations of Lorca

from a Southern Review. I read you
some while you lay on your chest, recovering

from the day out of the apartment.
When I put down the book, you got up

and we danced like gypsies across
the wooden floor, naked and restless.