And this is-- this is called "We Are."
Love, we are a small pond.
In us, yellow frogs take the sun.
Their legs hang down.
Their thighs open like the legs of the littlest children.
On our skin, water bugs suggest incision
but leave no marks of their strokes.
Touching is like that.
And what touch evokes.
Just here, the blackest berries fatten
over the pond of our being.
It is a rich month for putting up weeds.
They jut like the jaws of Hapsburg kings.
Tomorrow, they will drop their blood
as the milkweed bursts its cotton, leaving
dry thorns and tight seeds.
Meanwhile, even knowing that time comes down
to shut the door--
headstrong, righteous, time hard at the bone with ice
and one thing more--
we team, we overgrow.
The shelf is tropic still.
Even knowing that none of us can catch up with himself,
we are making a run for it.
Love, we are making a run.