Ripening

This second war house survived
to slant a roof over us
in curving dawn.

Part the curtain and reveal
thunderheads, pink-crowned,
above the peeling sill.

Before, you traced the curve
of night in solitude,
stored up longing: a planet

in the cavity of your breast,
in your palm. Now, your hands
work sheets like fragrant earth.

You conquer hemispheres
in the dark—in the morning
are the languid last pull of wine.

The dip of your throat
pools dew: just morning
through the rain-jeweled pane.

I press my tongue inside
and taste you ripening there
like apple, like grain.