Find yourself in
a sunken place?
The sea isn’t the only homeof the anemone.
Surface to the mythical plane& you’ll hear its
blooms crinkle in the windlike a tissue
in the hand of Aphrodite.Don’t worry about
the fatalities of lovetake a walk,
breathe in the ripening air.A record sings
from your window& the children dream
in a room of papered stars.Slip into the trees
&
see the anemone redden likelips at your ankles.
A tryst, you could say,a romance
in a woodland meadow amile from home.
