The first is summer grasses
dewed up on the night’s breath
nectar of photosynthesis
sweet for a second before the
dryness tangs almost bitter
a switch lost in the heated cup
the the lips can only bear it
for the moment of the throat.
Imagine all those leaf-tips
tangled with winds
the anvil of sun floating them
closer to shaving
swift fingers pinch them from
nests of growth and they dry
lower their sunset
until they are deep green
a river of thirst themselves
waiting for the boiling.
poemation 