Sunday, June 12, 2005


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.

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