each time the wind turns the pages of the tree, the sun ripens in itself, a fruit transfixing the day—
we take it in our hands, lowly in the grass we lay in slender fascination, a fresh fruit's glaze signaling the hour.
this is when my love heightens as rain falls inanimately on unquiet stones, revealing their naked splendor. their silences transmuted into undressed woes of women toiling shorelines and men striding subterranean worlds —
whereas when brightness then quells itself and tosses you out into the deepest chasm of chores, your locomotives unction you my sweet lovingly arms where i bring you close to rescue,
herein darkness prevails and overthrows water: my hands divest their fates and begin to scour for the nacre of your heart— and i will take it, and i will own it, for there is nothing the blue yields in depth but the lesson it shares,
leaving me a place, flat on my belly, with a bounty of flowers in my mouth your lips have planted like your hand on my chest.