"End of summer," new poem.
"You are the beautiful lip against my nipple,
but the red cup of raspberry is yours.
Speaking, you hold up your hand, an oracle perhaps,
while I sleep on into the night, another monsoon or not,
displaced from water to this curtain of heat.
Long ago, the goats you tended in New Mexico answered you,
deep bleats and soft eyes meeting yours,
their white bearded heads and your palm above my left breast,
the heart unmoving as the water moves out of the city
into the earth."