Spreading the asphalt, picnic blanket,
the pubescent lad smooths out its wrinkles
and uses heart-shaped suburbs
to hold the corners from the wind.

Burdened with the basket,
the lass rests nature's conduit in the center
of love's unconsciousness
and arranges the conversation
into streets and parking lots and plazas.

Sprawling among the plates and utensils,
the two workers feed each other and play
until sandwiched between two black sheets
and then catch a bus for the city limits.

When love is a steel erection under glass,
the evening does not reveal the heaves
and pots and blades of grass,
yet the ants parade about the cemetery
and swarm the broad loom carpet.
The perfect places are interrupted
by the clumsy feet of a poem sweet poem.