I do not imagine

a trellised heaven,

an espalier of

flush fruit

sheared, manicured,


or woven

into twisted train,

against flanked stone

or flattened plane,

an ordering of drupes,

their crop confined

to measure, groove

or knotted line—

instead our vines

will bound the hills

unlaced loosely where

fruit wills

weaving through orchards

knitting the grasses

their juices spilling

into river splashes.

issue: Quiescence