Fruit Gathering

11 May 2017

If I was a hunter and you were the moon
what a woman is
what a mad thing

Cannot carve yourself out
October pumpkin

Flesh falling
of synapses crawling

syrup sticks
stings, surrendering
space, time – I give it all
the umbilical extension
cords remain
extending ourselves in infinite
lines, somewhere
the relation of yours
to mine

That year
I cut lavender and made
tea, walk me further
in that direction, take me
further out to sea

drown with me
(I am a child who has already swum
too far)

and cook for me

Springtime withholds warmth
sure as I’ll be on streets
squandering sun

Folly, folly

always gathering fruit

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