Origin Story

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.