9am and the sweat already
beading and rolling down forearms,
eyebrows, collarbones
my skin sheening as i
step amongst cucumber vines
that can’t seem to discern a bed from a path
sliced cucumber morning offering
to rachel – loft-perched
sorting irrationalities and feelings
and the complexities of being human
singing while we weave
tomato vines through trellissing
under the almost-noon sun
the tree song
that will now always make me think of dennis

how i click and call for mama cat
around the imp shed and can’t help but feel a little hollowed
when she doesn’t call out in response
the white spots on the
spindle-legged fawn at the edge
of slater’s hill as seen
from the shade of the persimmon trees
not sure what type of tree
but the leaves are ovalish and pointy
and we are on a blanket underneath
looking up
trading one vulnerability
for another
it’s not everyday you get to talk with an 8 year old
about his opinion of circumcision
she says at the sink about
the lunch conversation
i don’t even move and i’m sweating
baigz says and then
kneading the bagel dough
it was pouring off me
extra salt i say
while the sky pours its sunset copper on everything
we move from field to field
sucking on the sweetness of
purple clover petals and then
crunching on an oat from the field
which is soon to be harvested
something like that i say
when mo asks if l and s are my friends
from new mexico


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