ISSUE: Fall 2019
The blushed syllable it wore
with its whole body,
tawny rose-hip orb
of antique origin,
was peddled by the season
that’s upon us,
love, and is the only reason
I could bear to slice
a sugared coin of it
into this cup of gin
where it floats in candescent facet
of spirit, egoless, your gift:
tongues making of one a pair.
A presence to carry everywhere.
