
At the Harvest I Danced With the Reaper’s Daughter
He saw her figure beneath
Her dress like a large white
Fish flirting with the surface
Sweet in your prime
Bracelets and shining earrings
Transcendent Immanent
The Goddess in Matter
Sitting straight
As the sacred oak
Wary of what’s on
The line
faint path sun scored woods
we take and shouldn’t take
each other where we will
what we want what will we
find this night we didn’t all
the other nights who knows
pleated cans fractured bags
slimy rubbers how romantic
but yes flatline cicadas flaring
fireflies here the wind strips
the insubstantial clothes
slipping off your peach
body like dry leaves
from a frozen pond