Aphids toiled brittle stems as we met the dike to rob snakehead buds of their fruit. I gathered persimmons, podgy maypops. You puckered, sucked seeds, tannins, the half-ripe pulp half-glossy, sicksweet. Down lying in crowds of dry grasses, your warm legs pile beads of sweat. Even our silken fruits offer their wet to afternoon sky. Oh darling, this impartial land has grown strange in our rocky