Saturday, August 15, 2009

Lucid


She has all the telltale signs
of a houseplant.
Don't ask about Zen or Sartre.
Into the wooded glen,
unzips her Levi's
and lets him in.
The mosquitos
have triple
hatched
this year.

His thigh itches.
Thinks about Billy Collins.
"Taking Off Emily Dickenson's Clothes".
A study in detachment
of mother-of-pearl buttons.

Ivory lace folds down
to the floor around
sharp, white ankles.
Each piece of clothing
which fell
from her mouth
was a card laid on the table.

'Fifty two pick-up'.

They are both dreamers,
against the tree.
Eyelids half moons,
He of tulle,
Emily's breath and Collins.
She, weighing the possibilities
of plunging headlong
into the ravine below.

Just one slip from her bad hip,
grasping on to branches
which bend green in her hands.

No comments:

Post a Comment