(text below the cut for those who don't want to squint)

it is summer now, the weary end:
bleachy hoar grass trodden flat
air thick and wet,
the breath of a lover
dense between my breasts;
trickles of sweat from every joint
one thinks of dioramas,
of the flight of birds
the gestures of the hand suspended
one thinks of aspic, of aquariums
and yet things move. the harvesttide
attains its orchard fulness
peaches lade their branches
the fires eat them,
their teeth and their tongues vivid
eager as the wolf who eats the sun.