57: Blankets

Sapphire and liquid

amber, warm honey

sky, the mountain pulls and pulls;

sky's sandals come off; its sweaty slip

forms over the ground: dew. The odor

is fresh, moist, and open. Love

is made sumptuously graphic, rolled out, formed,

pungent even and

we know only of

teasing under blankets - speak shyly,

ashamed of some

intercourse

covered in morning's

droplets.

The trees have a rock away, rock away: sway. Say,

virile wind, come cast seed. Say,

moist ground, feel me all

stretched out