Much too eager to be innocent,
we pressed years of letters together
and lay upon a putting green pressing hands

before the summer moon rolled behind
the pines of Sequoia Crest above
the Rio de San Pedro, its prickly silhouettes

in a golden glow before an ascension
that burns behind my eyes yet,
as bright as fifty years ago. Naked

winter oaks with us stand and wait
for the pendant to rise and illuminate
her supine flesh while she sleeps,

from her throat or soft breast, she stirs
alive as you and I hold our breath—
from her toes stretched to Sulphur’s peak

to her long hair spilling into a dry creek
bed. Native women gathered here
for and by this same old moon.

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