Long past noon
when the banshee sleeps
and the tall grasses stiffen,
you may find an indentation in the ground
where lovers, rolling and wet,
covered with pearls of sweat
had open-eyed sex.
The earth saves things like that.
It keeps them like marbles and summer wine
until they are warm and green.
Caught against a rock, sun spent,
they will change their color each morning
until the last wind coats the ground with dust.
Who will remember when lush summer lips
begged blossom from a seed?
In the harbor,
far from the loud noise of meadows,
the fog has closed the sky
and muffled the mood of salt.
Even the sea has gathered oil and water
and twirled some forbidden coffee spoon into life.
Can you claim the reflection?
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