we are the dear hands of god
for Elizabeth
When we lie together I feel the english of our body like
we are the dear hands of god plunged
into a heron-feather river to
rescue a pebble, perhaps, or a
diamond or simply marvel. On winter after
noons, we don’t care what subject we paint. We touch with apricated lips
rusty barn and dry-tobacco-fire alike. We simmer
in December typicalities:
that sugar shack smell in our hair –
What do you mean you’ll do
it with passion? You’ve ruined me
like a snake in the orchard. Even after the flood, the flood,
when the weathered bronze welkin is folded & wrung out,
left hung up dripping & on the door-hook to dry I will not concede
our love.
