One version of the story is / we went home and sat on the porch for two hours / slamming back glasses of tepid tapwater / talking about dying / and staggering off to bed / before the clocks hit midnight.
The flavor of the evening / softens / when I say
I put on a song / for the moths circling our porch light. / I rested my hand / on her thigh. / She tucked herself / against my collarbones. / We were quiet together / while the music circled our ears. / Cars rattled and roared by / every dozen minutes or so / but we looked at the light / and spoke of loss / or the fear of loss. / My phone half-hidden by my leg / I texted someone across the country / about my intimacy issues. / On the porch, we spoke of death. / On the phone, we spoke of sex. / The two great conversations / that artists and philosophers / have always written about / (among an infinitude of others) / contained on our porch / and the curled brackets of twilight / around one evening in June.