As a child I would awaken,
midsummer, cicadas buzzing
their alarm from oak trees whose

The flower pod, green-white, hand sized,
bloomed at night. As the dead increased,
the world of objects seemed more dense,

One shoulder breaking the tension of a satin slip,
making the strap fall loose inside the dress.
Bend of the gesture sliding the strap back, into place,

Collect and recollect. These things I do
within, where, present with me is the world
and whatever I could think of it,

What I thought was stillness
was not stillness. What else would
a tall girl love but hills to stand on

When his arms raise it’s all he knows of how
a body opens. Light and full,
his body in the moment just before she touches him