Climbing the fence to your cemetery
I scratched my wrist, a wound you salved with spit.
It was not yours, of course, just Russian,
A patch of thistle slant over the cold sea
Coursing like a river whose floe has cracked.
High up ospreys hung in the stiff gusts
Where fifty souls hover in chill limbo.
You laid wild flowers before their crosses
And we made love among the thorns and spines,
Desire standing steady in the gush of time.