To go by the asters
and breathe
the sweetness that hovers

in August about the tall milkweeds,
without a direct look, seeing
only obliquely what we know

is there—that
sets the heart beating fast!
and through

the field of goldenrod,
the lazily-humming waves of 
standing hay, not to look up

at the sea-green bloom on the mountain—
the lips part, a sense
of languor and strength begins

to mount in us. The path leads
to the river pool, cold and
flashing with young trout. The sun

on my whiteness and your
tawny gold. Without looking
I see through my lashes the iridescence

on black curls of sexual hair.