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. May our attention be a means of staving off

the future guaranteed. This Earth is hardly born, has barely seen beyond the nearest light-veils

and when it wakes it will not cry. It will yawn, it will pour. We may be stuffed underground or briefly

shielded in valleys. Love, may we make this day. Love, give me lips and

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