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 a chill limbo.
You laid wild flowers before their crosses
before we made love among the thorns and spines,
desire standing steady in the gush of time.