It wasn’t a standard fifth date, but
out there to bury my dog,
not his body per se,
but the fanny packs of his grief.
The aura photographer said you
and I had a mutual blue that
incited hot orange adventure.
I sang a new smile under the alders while
you kissed everything. We slept free
on beargrass mats in claw caves.
Seven years later when you cheated,
it was on a new futon. We’d been to Tokyo
and were fancier. All I could think of was red dust.
You’d really wiped your hands on me in Sedona.