Ginger Tongues

In the gutted back of our beat-up Trooper, a blue flannel
is spread out and covered with stale bread crumbs.

Two rows of palms in front of the hay shed mark home.
We post ourselves next to ginger fields,

legs perpendicular and long with the triple-wick wax stump
somewhere in this grid awaiting a bottle of wine.

In here, with the windows shut, mosquitoes can't reach,
and frail truths spill over a rusty floor at the shadows.

You cook chili-pepper quesadillas over candle fire. I
pull at the cork. "How much longer"

escapes from my parched tongue with a pop and again
my hand barely misses the flames.

The kinetic silence that follows could set us
rolling forward like a dream.

We stay parked until dawn, with her great Pacific sun,
blinds our dew faces. Quickly looking down

at each other's hands-
it's clear we've ended up bitten anyway.