I.

Your hips are an orchard, where I put my lips,

teeth, and tongue to the fruit that ripens with our heat.

My mouth seeks honey with apples as if it’s 

     the new year and I’ve

already begun to celebrate. Holy,

holy and graceful, the prize of your fingers 

on my hidden harbor. I drown willingly

     in your wine dark sea.

Watch how we move our mouths. Like gods in ruin, 

we tremble, tremor, tumble from the altars.

Gather me up with blood reddened hyacinths 

     sacred to Venus.

My chest blooms with violets. Yours is a meadow 

of pink clover, drawing the bees. Desire

is a nightingale’s voice hanging the full moon 

     as high as you wish.

II.

an orchard,     I fruit, ripen     wine dark   seek honey

holy prize        the altar            desire        with hyacinths

mouths            hangs                                 the moon

tremble draw

a nightingale

III. 

an orchard ripens

honeyed mouths tremble 

with a nightingale moon