There is so much to adore, it is late August &
the fig tree has begun to bear its fruit.
I am awake in what I love & desire;
just like the fig, the oaks next to the stream
with tangled watercress—swallowed in
the nibbled wax work of the creek
—the scandal of all its bathing.
The landscape weaves itself delirious
with all of the obsessive play:
through the earth up
to the pinch & pump of stars—
the sun in the sky changing the pulp
of canyonside shadow—lawn membrane thick
in roses—moss crusted between soil & the dark
places it touches—
My mother looks out the window & tears
the fig skin apart with her thumbnail, peels
the fruit from the skin with her teeth.
Puneet rings the door bell to offer a plate
of eggplant & samosas. We share the meal
drinking wine & passing the long tumble of autumn.
The loneliness that is allowed to slip in
& numb the edges of our fingertips.
The loneliness that settles every year
a little deeper in my bones each fall.
He plays old songs we've written
on his guitar, as I collage from
National Geographics. Harvesting the ruins—
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