We keep our distance, a kind of prayer,
walking through contagious air,
older father & old daughter,
roaming his church, the little orchard,
apricot already blown to leaf, apple
mere pulses, the peach still braille
on yet-dead limbs. I love most
the plum, fruit whose stone would close
my throat. Scabrous trunk, bent
as a crone but bridal in ascent.
Without protection is what anaphylactic
means. I plunge my face toward scent’s lunatic
shock. In it: olives, sea salt, a crescent moon:
a contact high, a cyanidic swoon.