I Often Think of that Fourth of July

Continually,
the stifled fireworks within our palms,the arm rolling loosely along your hip,the hip softly bulging against the hood of a car,
the wrist bone protruding with sudden purpose,
the call of the crickets cooling our skin.

I try to emulate their tone:
the tip of a tongue against the small pocket of an earlobe,
the sad hump of moist breath.