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 noses, skin parting tangy skin.
The post Love Song Set to a Tune of Gathering appeared first on The Atlantic.
