She, radiant as a Flemish beauty pear won't come near passion with a ten foot pole
having been violated when a child.
We draw milk blue circles around
mystery which blooms.
She'll touch other things: tenderly as though hot coals from the fire, with tongs:
feathers, frond of fern sea urchins
the most particular & pleasing
from a friend's cancer pain
the Iscador injections.
I run my forefinger over the glossy
sufrace of my elm-plan desk my coffee world
waiting for rain to finish
packing & curling the world
autumn rusting its edged
I've seen portent out the door
in the great black crow glossy as bootpolish
clothespin white wood in his beak:
he could tweak the garment of mortality & hang it on a branch by the creek.
I walk on glass The horseman's shadow. This too will pass?
It may shatter
I take care
to leave no blood on the air.