Cucumber shrine

The hook of the cucumber vine

grew up over your feet, over the rough frames
made from limbs of unknown trees
and buds of amber flames
bloomed to make it a shrine.

 

A dawn of rather stale

morning-breath has come
with rattles of grass plumes
frothing in the scum
filling in the wrong details

 

I think of you so close

slashed cucumber fresh your hands
on my back, and my knees
still gritty with the sands
on which the vine grows.

 

The patio isn’t far

to sit and watch the winds
to feel the sands creep close
to see the lean moon cringe
away from a star.

 

Did you want this for yourself

should it make me smile
this stale and that cringe
and one tall pyramid pile
of pickles on the shelf?


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