Soft basket (edit 1)

A woven-grass basket
slung over my shoulder,
shaped like a plum but larger,
holds a stone,
a shadow self that comes and goes,
some places where
I touch the ground, a river, a sea,
a hot-metal sun,
a frigid moon in a blue-black sky,
holiday lights, a walnut
or two, an apple tree, eggplants,
and my dreaming your name.
A cursive line
edges your strength.
You call to me.
I come, climb up,
and touch your face,
swallow your wine,
and bury my fingers in your hair.
We kiss between our words.

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