On a pomegranate picnic

with a friendly ghost

cracking red cells into dishes

that disintegrate in the sun

and the blanket spreads like sand

over pine needle carpets

and oil splattered clearings

where the suffering green

is a touch of inward fire

clouds of plastic bags

rub along our backs

we crawl to read the clay

in fertile ditches

and the peels fall away

from daylit sculpture

lichens glowing on the shepherd's

wall of stone

and the shepherd's gone.