I.
Sun-sweet rubies,
such ripe and heavy jewels.
Red flesh made redder in the heat,
brilliant against the flat, unbroken blue.
The tart reprieve, the shock to the tongue:
this is late summer’s slow exhalation.
A season fading, curling at the edges.
August will die, sun-baked and broken.
The great phoenix, September, will rise.
II.
Stain me with your fruit, blood and secrets.
Keep me wanting,
turbulent.
Pale flesh made red.
Again?
Again.
Bruise me blue.
Face down ,
muffled by the earth.
Cacophonous,
spent in the shade of the raspberry canes.
