You pick lemon basil off the stem— / feed me green beans wet with dew.
In the center of our garden, / there is a fish sculpture of adobe.
I was too aware of my freedom— / the taste of summer in my mouth,
and sun on my nakedness. / I did not recognize that same light
when he rose to meet me. / Or did I? Is that why I ran?
Today I will be Phragmites, the many-bodied,
pale reeds lifting skyward
from the scalp of Tiana Bay.