Abandoned in myrrh, your hands
the spill, river's eye, milk & branch
flowers edge screens
bellies shine ready.
There is nothing simple about an eyelid
or the incessant thump of the distance.
As if it was ever that simple.
Apprehension. Arrival. A dubious price.
And who is right if we are ruined
among wires of scarlet, & a grip
powerful in the cut of the day.
Those chains of eyes by the fence
do not distinguish differences
spices, lips, honey & salt
while sweeter languages
behave as if this was a garden
as if this was spring.
Is it too late to correct our imperfections
with passion?
Is freedom in our way
are storms enough, & torrents?
All feeling has been pulled
at surface
into pressures of dawn
an extremity - pleasure & anger.
Outlines of roofs delineate cliffs
should I decide to go here
rather than trace sweat patterns
that translate us
more than this simple economy
the voice of my beloved.
It demolishes me, scales me
is part of the support, wall & window
my ascension over low winter
where rain exceeds us
where flowers paper the earth.
