Song

Now, there is a fine vine fire blue green illusion in your arms no couturier could deal, no dress on a door could adorn, a deliberate witchery of rhythm in your sobbing. I want to be you, and your cheek against my chest. I am.

I mean, yesterday I was something else insignificant like a chipped stack of black dishes. Let some yard sale be done with them, or send them to a tornadoed town. Arrange them at the foot of a broken oak with napkins and faux-fruit.

Are you one of the gods, girl? With your prehensile style of loving, you are the reason for groves. There is no child in you, yet. Let me say I will clothe the prairie with a tablecloth of praise. Bring nothing. Bring nothing.