She spent the rosefish hour being new,
& lay across my mouth & whistled to
stars that fluttered across the gingertops.
She was conjured by the fragrance of heat
& sliced peaches. It was in late July
when the cicadas mutter in the tops
of rosaceous trees & the naked sky
looms like a bride. These memories are sweet.
We followed each other into desire,
& were perpetual & clear. The fire
& sangria of being seventeen
& passing our secrets mouth upon mouth,
like the taking of a fresh nectarine,
made us blind to what we were rushing past.
In that bloom of wanting, I see at last,
was the soft completion of my youth.