1

After afternoon sleep,

the water has just started to boil.
 

2

Flavors swirl on my tongue--

fruit tart, sugar white,

the wild familiar patina of sweetness,

shielding me from despair.
 

3

I drink to the smooth, green skins of the fruit

shining in the leaves, the dusty Sunday yards

where we have picked;

several notes in C-sharp major in the vibrato

of the flute: we were lonely,

picking plums in a boom town, longing to escape the desert.
 

4

I drink so the jays will call to each other,

the junipers have new growth

after the June beetle is finished.

I drink to dreams, blue mussel shells,

the plums rolling toward each other while still clinging

to the tree, the wind shaking the tree; by next month,

the plums will ripen, darkening , darkening.

Here in the desert, we can do what we want in spite of the dust.
 

5

Your hair has gotten thinner,

but it still flies, falls into your eyes;

I think of hugging you, the bones in your back,

begging to be counted; let's go upstairs, I say,

let me count them there. A tart song spins

from to you. I hear the stillness inside the wind.
 

6

The jays call to each other,

the plums tremble and hold on.

I bring you desire:

a flute full of colors.
 

7

The girl that I was

still lives in my slender fingers.

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