The curly tendrils of snow peas
snatch at each other
tentative and desperate,
how the heat goes under
when day descends into
dusk without once
looking back
chatter of watery French
the Quebecois girls snap stems
with rough fingers
my ears lulled to
inclinations within fields
of the mind, monologues of
black birds with red chests
that caw and fly up, up
the sun a round red balloon
balanced in the evening air
I am trying to hold it there
by some sleight of magic,
desire, or illusion
which are all one thing
Sandrine can tell time
by its angle in the sky —
8 o’clock and she is right,
and she jumps up with a
bright laugh, emblem
of all youth:
pea stalks in hand
blonde wisps floating
mabel lee 