in riverwater, like in summer songs,
there is no fear, only
longing. we have never

once swum naked, never sunk
our suspicions in dark rivermud
to drown with all their scrapmetal

hearts; instead we bury them
in the backyard of the co-
habitation we both agree

was too soon, next
to the roses by the bleached-
bone fence. i miss your

honeysuckle, the pulling
sweet drips of you
with my tongue. i long

for a good, hard
stretch of new growth,
a backwards of time,

depths that brighten
in sunlight. i want
to plant lavender

and strawberries, shoo
away the stale that
creeps damp-wise

into us. i am
bareso(u)led. & tired
of pruning.