Nothing Else
 
not the sweet yonder of a future,
as if the nectar of certain passion
was even possible:
slow sticky saps of confident love
spewing all-over our bodies,
trickling softly against our heated skin.
 
the allocation of an empty house, now removed.
the empty house,
is no longer made up of trees & fruits
of vacant labor –a lonely endeavor.
 
The pears and apples dance.
 
The grapes, watermelons and mangoes
rest vibrantly.
 
Our own garden creates it’s own local nectar
one which we need not over-yield.