tantalus

It is the rigor of the triggers,

the cunning of the trap,

green leaf yellow leaf brown leaf—

seasons on repeat. The eyes go to

where the mouth will water,

the pretty of the picture, 

the crisp of the whisper and 

the certain in the crunch,

all this keening clipped from

magazines and gibbering screens,

home where they know to

lock you out, burnt photos and

salt-rimmed spells. The curve

her hips threw your hands 

as the cure of her kiss again

eludes, half flavor half feel

almost savored upon the sudden 

sight of her, ripe fruit and 

cool water. You reach for

the moon stuck up a tree,

the last star fallen

struck down with a wish.