This pendulous rose,
her head so full
of cream and pink
she must rest herself
on the wooden table.
And the dewy yellowcrest
falling out of the clay vase—
not unlike the sensation
upon waking this morning
when I translated dream:
the loose charm of your blouse,
half-buttoned, open just so the bony flesh
between your breasts was revealed.
Did I want to place my hand there?
Let you feel me like wind? Yes.
You, long-stemmed in a field,
dusky-wild. Each of your worries
its own red hip. Why, after all this time,
do I want to hold your cry? The blue
strawflower taken from her place
under the moon. What poured over her
at night. Why, now, the living dream of you?
Dusk until dawn. Dawn-wild,
I loved you. I coveted and sucked
the same as before any mystery.
I confess I conflated you with god.
For the morning and your silk dress of eternity.
For the time you gave. For light so warm
we wanted to undress ourselves.
