The Sun Sleeps in Your Womb

The orchard of uncertainty
that we planted
yields its fruit by night,
when the sun sleeps in your womb
awaiting my seed.

We know nothing of the minerals
and the buried toys,
nor of the bumblebees
that carry pollen
between two warring states.

The earth smells of forgotten damp
and the footprints of our childhood
are covered
by the wheel-marks of a cart.

From here our innocence sets out
and moves to the bright-lit cities
that exist only in atlases
and in the sky
when there is no moon.