Peach fuzz dripping 

with juice and honey, 

rivulets down 

a cleft 

chin like the hooves 

of the goats who are scattered 

on granite cliffs, 

flat pupils flush on horizon, 

narrowed towards apricot sun. 

Citrus-sweet and sticky 

words run thick down 

throats, leave film on backs 

of teeth, bite marks 

on phrases and 

nectarines. Raspberry vines like Ugolino’s sons 

clutching ribs, and 

goats’ praying bleats echo, 

and I am Echo 

repeating honeysuckle and wine.