She likes her grapes frozen. He can’t stand the texture. She drops two or three into a glass of Pinot Gris. Summer’s a porch screened by burgeoning gardens. Already floras enclose, obscure them— He serves breakfast nude each weekend. She paints him from memory, her colors homage to tanager and towhee— What was once shameless now carries intricacies, innumerable steps (tempo dawns). Their dance, not rote, but rueful as moonbeams escaping grasp. The trailing light of one more c