when we lived in the house in the valley my grandmother would instruct us to close all the windows before nightfall, she would do the same too when a storm was coming. in the house where we lived there were many windows so that every evening before the darkness fully settled there was an anxiety in openness, a hasty shutting and the sound of all things closing in concert

mostly i harvest each green fruit with regret

fruit gardens disestablished , a , opening one by one , an un- curtained window looking into a feature , faces unformed now , as mounds of dirt , opening them all like doors , potatoes cold in the cupboard , we keep opening these faces , , but there are leaves to rake , dogs to feed , mouth closes , motion , garden of green holding moments as bubbles , only low hanging branches to caress her face , smoke , you are allowed to have this desire floors , walls ,, staircases , touching latex gloves , skin holding arm to palm , this touching is always a
subtext , highways lined with privately owned orchards, , place in pocket , a face distorts , in this place , we ripen late , small mounds, a mouth to open and close, one by one overlapping motions , other drenching walls , chest flowers picking handfuls of berries for free , pull out plants , snap hanging branches others smooth unanswerable , regret , mounds of dirt , pained features soft , dark collect , low faces as
times we are both still , her features unformed here , i keep opening those faces , , gardens of inedible plants , this landless town to hold , i think we are speaking blue and yellow flowers , painted crudely , over pavements resisting capture , to caress a face , features of dirt , but insides spilling world marbled blood , alcohol , distorted harvest of green , , night time becomes precarious , hand body , nothing dark burning pink , like floor plants ,
crook arm head chest , feeling body hand , basement flowers , ceiling low small green , cold open , others inedible taking this store , , nothing reaped , nothing gained , storage leaked , windows looking into a face , opening each one by one, features as small doors , words becoming unformed here mostly i lie here and think of the small things unearthed out of darkness and mostly i harvest each green fruit with regret