of California’s summer heat,
where fools are we,
in the arrival of a second summer.
Lover of ours, tell us —
is your name engraved
on our soul
and in the heavens above?
Lover of ours, don’t you
worry, for we’re your knights
on the battlefield, where
your heart is our prize —
our most precious gem,
that even a million jewels
can’t replace
When we return
to you, our lover,
we shall eat and drink —
the grapes and the wine
which will bear our fertility,
spilling summer’s squashed berries
into our mouths,
letting it run like a waterfall
down our throats.
And should our
hands do more than
holding, let the
demons blush
for our sins
of deathly summer’s darkness.
Walk with me, love,
before the grapes grow shy,
before the moon catches us
with lips still stained
and the night learns
what our bodies have done
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