I made you a daisy-chain halo to still the pylon’s electricity
as it squatted on your picnic and gnarled at your lobes.
A ring of white-skirted Maypole dancers intertwined their arms,
designated your skull the village green on Whitsunday afternoon.
They spun until their linens clung damp on their calves, until
they were limp and languid and briar-scratched ankles.
By seven o’clock they wilted.
You took them to the spot where the railway bridge crosses the river
and you crumpled them in your palms.
When they landed on the surface, they scampered off atop a current.
They became pond skaters hunting for the pledge of summer.