Down by the creek

          named for its sweat-

scented roots, my sister taught me

          to relieve the ache I imagined

God gave only the wicked. Here

          is where to place

your touch, your breath, your troubling

          assent. Delight

relived--the anticipated end

          of our exploit--came with gloaming, 

the appearance of lives

          you don't see lived in

full sun. The swallow

          you cannot name. (What I've learned

to call pleasure is more

          akin to belief.) My sister slouched

over when the soughing

          ceased, said, no one has to know

this place exists.