What Happens to Light When it Passes Summer

I gather 
globe after globe,
               each dusky sweet
streaked with the lingering
trace of the not-yet-ripe
               and my hands 

with milky sap—
sometimes they
              flower into itch 
and burn. In the heat,
we say nothing 
              about the plots

we haven't cleared,
the grass beginning to choke
              at the foot of a still 
very young persimmon.  
Not all in a garden flourish or fall
              together, as I've learned.

Come, let's not hide 
our faces any longer until  
            they burst from the effort  
of pretense. Let's just tune 
each other's clocks 
              as well as we can. 

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