Sept/Oct 2020 • Vol. XLII No. 5 All of This Is TrueSeptember 1, 2020 |


Goose shit and babies, weddings and asparagus, so much green, so much flowering and shearing in this season, your body hardly belongs to you. It is pink. Damp. Up to your knees in sweat and tomatoes, rummaging your hands through the dirt, testing its softness, how it might receive what you might press in. Radishes, say. Something bitter that can be coaxed into loveliness with butter, lots of salt. Does anyone miss their sweaters? The wind making a new face of your face? I do. Don’t tell. I flinch in the light of renewal. Would that the world would let me grow alone, would that the season could be reduced to the duration of an apricot. I esteem that fruit’s coy arrival, its rusty sugar, wildflowers and bark, rustling the tongue like a mouthful of monarchs, like a fistful of marigold petals and the gusts that wrested them loose. How little an apricot cares for my affection. Held too eagerly: collapse. Even if I am measured in my devouring, all too fast the pit. Rough and furrowed

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