Love Song Set to a Tune of Gathering
Aphids toiled brittle stems as we met the dike
to rob snakehead buds of their fruit. I gathered
persimmons, podgy maypops. You puckered, sucked seeds,
tannins, the half-ripe pulp half-glossy, sicksweet.
Down lying in crowds of dry grasses, your warm legs pile
beads of sweat. Even our silken fruits offer their wet
to afternoon sky. Oh darling, this impartial land
has grown strange in our time and from some rocky stasis
blossomed, praising the mercury toward higher altars.