If I was a hunter and you were the moon
what a woman is
what a mad thing
Cannot carve yourself out
October pumpkin
overripe
Flesh falling
tendrils
of synapses crawling
slowly
syrup sticks
stings, surrendering
concepts
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)
Hunt
and cook for me
Springtime withholds warmth
sure as I’ll be on streets
squandering sun
Folly, folly
love
always gathering fruit