Saint Paul, 1973
Amid the ransacking rumble of semitrailers, we stumbled
the sloped hill of Pierce Butler,
the truck route near the train tracks.
Around small trees and large bushes, weeds sticking in our clothes,
we half-slid to a secluded spot. He knelt, pulled me down.
Facing each other, a light press of lips, no more than a promise,
a signature on a blank page in light blue ink that fades
in sunlight, a slight spray
of small flowers amidst gray clouds.