Tick Season
Fresh again from summer
and its fields of unrepentant grass,
we strip down in the dooryard
of my little house, check each other over
for ticks. By now we have
outlived embarrassment,
though of the naked pastimes,
this one remains the more intimate:
what shapes we make
in the flashlight’s chiaroscuro,
interrogating every mole, every freckle,
before kissing them, an apology
to the innocent for such accusations.

























