Private Property

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Trespassing into gardens

of fern and poppy, I give

what I do not own. You

stake tomatoes one day;

by the next, they’re ripe,

burst between our teeth.

We ripen too, wrinkle,

tilt toward the ground.

I can't even keep you

(dozing in a hammock,

book open in your lap)

like the lucky shell at

the bottom of my pocket.

Yes, I got ahead of myself

from the beginning — see

how dust dances when

the wind kicks up like it

always does at sundown.