they would find in me
a whole standing forest
of dead ash trees
blighted by beetles
waiting to be hewn,
and the scent of apricots
ripened by the sun
and ten thousand thousand
blank pages
never written on
and they would find
my hands reaching
for the fields of purple
aster hiding inside you,
reaching not to pick
the flowers, no, only
reaching for the pleasure,
the sadness of reaching.