I'd tell you everything

In dream, I have tasted a saint; the moisture
still drying deep in the thorax the fluid,
                                fruit spun from a tree.

Within his defenses, a pine-bedded forest,
an un-divided Texan sky that hums between
two seasons, unfastened & affectionate,

where sheep count on nights to hot to sleep,
where we two converse about something
or                                        nothing at all,

their fleece, a blanket of mourning that shivers
& soaks our imaginings like the thin fingers of
watchful addicts along the vine.

His hand, a closeness that I have come to know
beneath the ornamental eves of a secret chalet
                                                 in september,

where we burn before the gates, off the cuff,
a tongue of sunken idiom illicit on the lip.