An urge to be in it, the green space
Of peace below timothy’s field
Hidden amid bramble’s knot, an
Unseemly wilderness where the smell
Of sweet-grape overcomes the sour
Air held by the bower’s heavy cutain.
My desire drains the power language
Might summon from such a languid
Stir of limbs.  I climb a wild cherry
To view our former place of tryst,
Know it as flickers know it,
From above, from hard stems
And pressed beauty.  It’s filled
With the nerve to tell me nothing