One could step, I discovered, into
one’s imagination and desire as though
to a place, a world, a physical thing,
and describe it from there, in
a traveler’s notebook
of love made manifest—
how the gate glowed
and the path began right there,
on the other side of the fence, at
the property’s edge,
and rose through the weeds
up the hill, paved and elusive
with pears on one side
and apples on the other.
The sun was hot and dry, and
the late July afternoon called the
insects on a honeyed wind.
Remnants of white marble eroded
and covered my fingers with chalk;
I lay down, owner and trespasser,
interloper in earth’s dream of space,
feeling beneath me the deep layers of pine
needles, hickory nuts and bones, holding
me up, singing me home.