limbs have fallen from some uncertain dream,
these small, useless gestures
of little, childish green. These early,
thoughtless leavings of the hard night's rain, and
what was it you said before I disappeared beneath the
ivory of the sheets? Dear love, touch me again.
Someone's mouth, a hurt promise
of all that can be soft, or its mate, the distinct hurt
of sex. Soft as this image: curled small tea
unfurling in water; hard as this:
architecture of your flesh. Between the rushing weight
of rain and the world's restless spin,
the outside littered with tendril and seed.
Across the acre of blue, green,
a morning's glimpse, this view of the sky
whose pulse of leaves resists
what I imagined the possibility of a tree could be:
the body rudely drawn, thick root.
And I a vestibule, the simple love of viscera
and all that timeless skin.
This moment of waking,
the desperate, cool and waiting blood.
