On the hospital lawn, we perch,
knees touching. The blue swallows
above the drawbridge sketch ampersands
in the dusk. Your crayon-pink
cashmere cap slops about your skull;
dying has dissolved your hair into light.
You show me how to splice three-leaf
clovers into four to fool the boys.
In the trees – glimmering sparks of bugs,
a flashing, almost Morse. You cup
the pinkish clover flower, pull it apart
and sip at the center. You give me half.