If I was a hunter and you were the moon
what a woman is
what a mad thing

Cannot carve yourself out
October pumpkin
overripe

Flesh falling
tendrils
of synapses crawling

slowly
syrup sticks
stings, surrendering
concepts
space, time – I give it all
the umbilical extension
cords remain
extending ourselves in infinite
lines, somewhere
the relation of yours
to mine

That year
I cut lavender and made
tea, walk me further
in that direction, take me
further out to sea

drown with me
(I am a child who has already swum
too far)

Hunt
and cook for me

Springtime withholds warmth
sure as I’ll be on streets
squandering sun

Folly, folly
love

always gathering fruit