.




Unleaf yourself beneath the Bois d'arc tree
and let my chisel-tongue inscribe your bloom
with glyphs, the cuneiform for vine and grape.

And where about us, in the dawn's curled mile,
the trees leap to their fire, the fox to luring
flesh, you'll pitch your moan to moon-starved owls

who'll bear it up between the limber boughs
while I, who holds your whorl of face and hair
in hand, will carve our love's curve smooth, and nail it

to the meadow's breast.



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