Patrick writes poetry. He does not show it to her, but every word
is of her, every touch of pen to paper, every scrap stuffed into pockets
as she walks up, lifts on tiptoes, kisses him on the cheek. She doesn’t
say hello, she only smiles and loops her arm around his waist, curls a
finger into his belt loop and they begin to walk, he with his head tilted
down, loving the easy familiarity of her. Patrick whistles and walks
and this is what he writes:

    • the ivy curls around the oak, stretching up into the sun


    • and her legs are two strong trunks, her arms spreading


    • branches, a multitude of branches, a multitude of trees


    • and even in the dark, the tips reach up to the light, they


    • stretch, and moonlight streaks the green, sunlight


    • catches the twisting leaves and the ivy reaches up,


    though it will never stretch quite as high…

Patrick takes her to the woods. She had never seen them before him. She
had grown up in the city, the big bad city with a moderately middle-class
life; she had walked its streets barefoot, heedless of glass, and now she
lets go of his waist, she runs in the woods, she disappears among the
trees, his heart thumps and for a moment he cannot breathe, he cannot
think, and then he sees the white banner of her hair, shouting surrender
in the dark woods, shouting come and get me and he chases her, running her
down, hunter to the fleet deer, but he catches her, he catches her up
against a tree, and then he pauses, uncertain.

He pauses, and it is she who kisses him then, who pulls him down
into the slightly dank undergrowth, the soft mosses, who peels their
clothes away, like curling apple skins, until they are shivering in the
morning woods, until their skin is wet with the remaining dew, until they
are shivering with desire, until their skin is wet with touching, burning,
rolling and rutting there under the tall trees, under the spreading
branches reaching for the growing light.

holes forest
cobalt frost
roses rust
And Can This Ever End?