He holds his thumb to the pulse
in her neck, presses.
I could make you lose consciousness, he said. I could do that.

She is not adverse,
has no allegiance
to the ornamental pears
that burst into selected beauty
all around them, releasing the scent
of rotting meat—
The image of them in this garden,
sprawled on the last grasses of summer
need not remain
uncultivated,
though he is a wilderness,
though she is.
There are graftings that have taken.
There are careful prunings.
She might see this last gesture
as kindness, not a threat.
I could, he is saying, but I won’t.

When she shifts her position and her hair falls around
his face—again the beauty
takes precedence
over any utility—
he doesn’t care
if she shades his face
from the sun, just that she is, for this last time, there.