|
In the
photo of us
resting for Naya in the Galilee
by the Montfort ruins, you are sunburnt
and have a mouthful of water
and laughing with your fingertips
which rest on themselves, almost
a pinch where they come together
under the skirt of your palm;
where they hover, nearly settled
on one goat of a herd
of goats grazing the far hill,
pursed as if to lift
it like a grain of sugar—
you are so poised, watching
with the telescoped gleam of your thumbnail
it strip a tree leafless
with the weight
of its thrown body
and clenched forelegs
for when to scoop
it like a pet
to your constellated lap—
and there, there I am, gleaming
in the curve as the paper bends
inward, slightly depressed, pressed
between your hands—
|
|
