Sometimes, it is a dream: the robin's slick song paring back the morning- it is not morning,
or, it is not like how morning comes, as if water from a glass tipped over, but it is how I loved you, gradually and then all at once. Cherry plum trees settling into their blush; hills of sodden wheat; this golden field I can't stop returning to: you, naked, inching towards me, an adaptation of tenderness and force- brief lights that fall gently from your hands. If only the landscape were that simple: pollen in the air, each breath leaving the mouth like a man pushed from a building- no, no. He leapt. To what do I owe your beauty to which I never fully required, and yet, while beneath you, is what bloomed. This is how I began: as dirt and desire, or simply a small river, aimless, but moving- to where?
