The acre of sky offset by pruned branches, apple
thickets, full fig asylum and the curve of common
sense earth make up his backyard.
In this he sees a garden, a partner, old
like the boxwoods, cup and saucer moons
laced with the aside of seasons. He turns
the soil of reason, tends the hourglass,
praises a hidden sun.
Rain in gasps drench cotton into skin like passion,
a driving wetness. Baptismal of leaf to breeze,
this thirst is drawn through pores
while brown eyes shelter an entreaty.