like picked blooms from the roadside,
you wore jeans and a purple shirt.
You did this to make me mad as the moon to get them off you,
so that your skin could preach gospel to me
smooth as a Gypsy barker.
Afternoon light came through the sectioned windows,
as you put pasque flowers on the turntable
and I poured last year's red maple leaves from a wine bottle.
The shirt, the jeans, they fell,
swooning angels drunk on honey and sunset.
We were a bowl of sweetness gone caramel, warm as bees.
Outside under the arriving stars,
an owl stood sentinel on a cherry branch;
your laugh made her swivel her head to capture the sound.
That day, into that night,
we made love bold as summer sunflowers,
then wore each other's jewelry under the stars, near the corn rows.
You went home in the morning,
with puffy lips, hickeys and your half-lidded smile,
pungent as new earth, smug as a cat.
How was your visit with your friend? they asked you.
How nice you know a girl like that, a pal like that, they said,
blind as bats, not even listening for the answer.