Girl Under Fig-Tree

Slim girl, slow burning

quick to run

under the fig-tree’s

loaded fruits.

Skin-cold like them

your wet teeth spread,

parting pink

effervescent lips.

When I hold you here

valleys of fruit and flesh

bind me

now wet, now dry.

While on your eyes, the cool

green-shaded lids

close on the

wells of summer.

Slim girl, slow burning

quick to rise

between question

and loaded promise.

If I take you, peel you

against the noonday dark,

blind wasps

drill my hands like stars.