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July 26, 2014


When I reach into the earth 
I reach for stars—the rough bump

of seed swelling itself into flesh. When 
I search for you in the middle of the night

I move towards the beyond—the curve 
of your hip a valley I have walked over

and over like a nomad. The cottonwoods 
shed their fluffy seed, the tender grass bolts,

the press of summer is upon us.  I shift plants 
in moonlight to act out this restless

stirring to spread beyond first planting.  
We build only to tear down, to relocate.  Tonight

your fingers rub tomato vines, trace the tendrils 
of clematis dancing up the lattice on the axis

of the sky.  Already we have forgotten the barren 
nights.  We stand on teetering apple ladders, reaching

for the fruit just beyond the green fur
of leaf—our want a kite tugging to get off

its leash.  Then where would we go?  Would we find 
sky in that floating?  Or would we long only

for our feet on the ground, hands in the earth, 
mouth upon mouth in a wild, unweeded garden?

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