by: Jonas Specktor

I slip on my silk tunic,
go out into the yard to gather in
the evening harvest
my head is fittingly light
for this task
I reach the threshold of the eggplants,
ponder planting my head
into the soil beside them
what purple dreams I would have
I run my hand through my hair,
admire the suggestive curls
of basil leaves
lean over to pluck up
a few snap peas
looks like they will have
a good crunch
the last lasers of sunlight
are bleeding out
over the city
I take my snacks
back into the house and
place a jazz record
on the turntable
languid warmth of summer
milks my bones
in the kitchen
blue flames
hold the simmer of
black garlic
while outside the window
night birds sing along