Stoned

At noon we sat on orange vinyl chairs
under a blazing sky
and bit into the waxy flesh of apricots
harvested from a backyard orchard;
an abundance bottled
fermenting and impatient in the pantry
beside crystallized fruit and conserves, our nectary.

Later we lay, faces glowing and watched
shot-silk curtains
rustle and swell in the window's draught, luminous nasturtiams in a twilight room; my tongue's delight was discovering a sticky morsel on your lip.

We might have drowned in overripeness
unmindful of the ancient hues
of infertile deserts,
rusty autumn leaves, cooling stars,
but I drew breath; even now my lungs
fill in sweet shock
at the glint of a rushlight underwing.

Julie