In July’s range of riffs,
raspberries prod taunts,
as if meant
to be as bountiful
as Artemis in Ephesus—
How much of the summer sun,
waltzing in orange wraps,
can their small beads exude
before they press fresh nectar
on lips they half undo in us,
under fingers tremulous
with knowing combs?
But how to lift and ease
a clean-passing glance
in such showy abundance—
at the midriff—offering,
coolly and offhand,
among displayed fruits,
a lax pillow to fall
to an Ephesian charm?
