by James Sands
Heat; there is sweat,
a dampness about her temple,
stray locks curl wetly against an earlobe,
elegant jaw, smooth throat, concentration
steam; tongs close quickly on a lidded jar
geyser, and she pulls back before she is burned
the sweet pressure, red and swollen
into a glass universe
(a complicated mess of berry and mash)
seeds that have burst under duress,
rumors of the future, and a loving caress
that will outlast a winter
Farmer-ish 