Postcard 175

This summer day
the new moon leans in heavily
Hot!
I hope your dark magic
carries weight

We are reaping
each moment's mortality
fine as a blade
of dry grass

Whole fields of fine cuts
and green horizons browning
in these hottest days

Water seems to
leap into the air
sticky and red-rubbed
I bury my face in you:
your sweat and mine

Are we making love?

Edged by rough coppice
the blank moon hides
the gristly shapes
of cut and cull

Even in these burning days,
in dark respite, love
and children are somehow made
Magic is a desperate act

& aren't these
desperate summer days?