Eros the Contagion

Soft as a Claude painting, the yellow sky tonight —

trees in the parking lot still thick, though the air, yes,

has an edge, the honey was solid in the jar

when I opened it this morning, found a single ant

frozen in the dunes, stunned by sweetness.

Can you really die of sweetness? Hard

to say yes, though I want to, looking up at these clouds

that make my heart jump: oh joy in seeing

though I can’t touch, like the girl repeating persimmon

as the waitress in the diner tells her about a tree

at the top of the hill she used to see, how beautiful

that vivid orange fruit was all at once.

Can’t touch them, but I see them in her eyes as

she remembers persimmons. Maybe that was

my mistake: thinking every love was different, a fruit

inside its own clear mason jar — my love, her love, his,

all separate as the trees they fell from. Maybe love

is more contagion, bubbles in a bathtub slowly

swelling, all the little circles drifting, gliding

gently into each other until they burst, until

nothing’s left but foam, the sound of rushing water.