You say the honeybee, who pollinates
the iris, is the husband
of all goddesses.
How the thorax speaks pipe organs
opening, creaking pedals. So I
Listened.
And your violin accompanied.
some reaching green stem through
Cracked earth.
the iris, is the husband
of all goddesses.
How the thorax speaks pipe organs
opening, creaking pedals. So I
Listened.
And your violin accompanied.
some reaching green stem through
Cracked earth.
“We’re all bumblebee-hungry,” you say.
You told me how flowers are
the way the earth hides its own
stupidity. And I listened. I loved the way
you spoke. Your tongue making
the sounds I wanted inside of me,
not tubular enough.
the way the earth hides its own
stupidity. And I listened. I loved the way
you spoke. Your tongue making
the sounds I wanted inside of me,
not tubular enough.
I liked the way your fuzzy magenta
socks skidded across the tile floor like
so many scattered stamens. You went
into the herb garden to grab more
half-drunken Merlot you chill in soil
to pour into these tall glasses.
socks skidded across the tile floor like
so many scattered stamens. You went
into the herb garden to grab more
half-drunken Merlot you chill in soil
to pour into these tall glasses.
I hear the honey, wondering
what it tasted like-
budding rose, daisy, the
muddled wool of the lamb I shore as a
little girl.
what it tasted like-
budding rose, daisy, the
muddled wool of the lamb I shore as a
little girl.
What else can we do but kiss?
In the herb garden where we’ll promise
each other fennel and feed cycles of
the moon.
In the herb garden where we’ll promise
each other fennel and feed cycles of
the moon.
