Fermata

Jonathon Friedman

Embryonic rain wets the city's palate.
I met you for coffee, or tea, or a beverage
of some shape or flavor.

We come from the thirsty
part of the country where water bodies
are blue-hued maps or vacation photographs.

In separate Septembers,
we found a watered Sound, and clung
to its hum with our still parched tongues.

We pull in less water than waste.
Your tattoo reminds me—
Black arc over a dot,
Shaded outward, darkened corners.
Musical symbols permanent
hold across your foot.