Draw us family-style nibbling raspberry bodies,
all hue and scent, rustling of silk and tang against

the roof of the mouth. Fresh from the west corner
of the garden, seeds of spell crushed between teeth,

tongue swollen with longing. Last summer shadows,
smooth as milk-glass before lungs caught fire.

Find forward four empty seats, ghost breath soaring
like fresh kite. Sun, pulsating medusae limbs across

the left wall, terraformed footprints goodbying by inch.
Think sharp teeth at the end of a fork poking for the soft

edges of things. Buoyancy in the making.