The Pines; The Hunter Fresco

Jérôme Luc Martin

The Pines

                    much later, Love in her apron of differing greys is
                    poaching pears

                    and neatly quarters glowing halves and slips them
                    into syrup,
                                        each a shining minute that extends in
                    sweetness, stitching at the loss of symmetry

in darkness, needles sweep into the sea of bark

                                                    the pin d’alep,
the corsican, the black pine boughs in wind

the way that time divides on pages

                    apron loosely tied in winding strings

on one page, night and storm—and on another, afternoon: the
falls of ash so fine, they only show where
                                                               brushed—

and fires delay the flights along the coast

                    again, again, the pears divide—

in rooms,

I write the way the wasps record their capture on the glass

The Hunter Fresco

We looked out through the traceries of wool on water;
glass brushed into regions

in the chamber, forests under cleared-of-weather
blue that fixtures grit of astres to the rock

what hand, when once

                    that alders in the rain—the painted alders

would have traced these words in ink across the facing
pages of your back one afternoon

the soap left honey in the stairs

and where, uncovered by the quick dawn in a clearing

Rhone between two lines of surf

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