No tropical undergrowth has stepped into a grove
but I think our second date is a kind of grove.
After the hours made love, they put on their shoes.
They are forbidden from re-entering the grove.
The animals of thought are sacrificed to it.
My hands empty bowls of semen round the grove.
Repeat a word of power, like a ritual bird,
until the non-repeatable comes from the grove.
When my body forces in between the trees,
it finds another place—a beach—and not the grove.
Before they piss, they ask forgiveness of the trees.
The soldiers know the nameless thing done in the grove.
Love is the name we give to what cannot be named,
past is the time, and where we worship springs a grove.