The sun comes down,
Like butter melting over a globe-shaped roll.
She and I eat sandwiches on a high
Both of us laugh
At the thought of
She lounges back,
props up on my chest,
The sun props itself upon the earth’s chest,
and sighs too.
We stay there gazing into the distance, over lumped valleys:
Covering our legs with a lumpy afghan,
We watch the sun slide beneath the earth’s duvet.
Toasting the first glass of moonlit white wine,
we curl up together, and laugh at ourselves: