Kevin Cantwell

Plum black & the blush white of an apple shoulder, melon & cream, in tones to list the flesh; in light, washed colors off at last & textures sheer with damp I slowly pull from you with your quick help. Weekend's ample procrastinations to forget the least of what we want to do. April, half a blast of cold, half new light, green & simple. Now dusk. Now fear. We pencil what we owe on this short form, our numbers good enough. The goose-neck glare undoes how we spent the day. Each bite each bee-sting kiss each bitten O all aftertaste. Later, at the drop-off, postmark queue, we joke: "Now we can die!"