in a borrowed bed
in a musty town
that ambles down
the hillsteps
to a southern sea
awakens me
to eyes that wait
like large black grapes
that ripened in the night.
a softness in the morning light
silvers with dream the touch
that they invite.
I rest beside the vines
and want no other world
than sight, until I see
the crescent of your smile.
an orange serpent flutters
in a nearby tree.
a peddler's song fills,
like my hand, with glowing fruit
from orchards where the air
at noon drips syrup stirred
by bees. The apple dust
collects behind your knees.
the waves of trading folk
flow down to port to meet
the commerce of the tide
that lifts the milkwhite arks
all day and lets them drop,
while I come close to being
woman who need never stop.

Tom Koontz
Arts Indiana 1991