Even so the peaches are ripe, their pelts cat’s tongue to my touch.
Even so the fierce poppies tremble.
Even so every night a dense blue like cold stones in my mouth.
Even so death rides the air, flitting and veering like bats, brushing my outstretched
arms, in passing.
Even so I dreamed the dream that Samson dreamed—honey oozed from a skull.
The taste? Like honey. I poured it into my palm and licked.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.