by Seamus M. Murphy

She spent the rosefish hour being new,
& lay across my mouth & whistled to
stars that fluttered across the gingertops.
She was conjured by the fragrance of heat
& sliced peaches.  It was in late July
when the cicadas mutter in the tops
of rosaceous trees & the naked sky
looms like a bride.  These memories are sweet.

We followed each other into desire,
& were perpetual & clear. The fire
& sangria of being seventeen
& passing our secrets mouth upon mouth,

like the taking of a fresh nectarine,
made us blind to what we were rushing past.
In that bloom of wanting, I see at last,
was the soft completion of my youth.

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