Garden of Gold
The chill and the damp under the pine tree.
The long shadow over the dark house.
Grapes, blue as dreams.
In curtained rooms,
whose punishment is sons
left behind in wars,
entranced by the cuckoos’ singing.
In the garden, the yellow autumn hour,
and under sweaters,
the warm breasts of girls,
as they lie down horizontal
under the curiosity of boys,
and as above them, blue as death,
ripens the isabella.