Can you put your hands around me like a muffler, season of grapes soaking in oak, season of crows, season of your husked voice whispering across the sheets, are you naked? Will you touch me first?
I put my faith in algebra. / And Wallace Stevens, of course, / / his quantum heresies, his dominion, / coffee and oranges
Inside, two pews made / from wooden pallets / the sea coughed up, an altar / of bleached driftwood
my wife, / / rising from a dive, turning to me, / gathered the rare light and wore it.
Lemon sunlight stripes the hospital bed, / and morning chases off the lulling blues
Once there was a language of women. Once / there was script for / “world” and “womb” outside / the characters of men.
It’s only late in life you understand / sacrifice: the bees died trying / to save the blooming world.
