Once again, it seems
I am somehow wearing
the wrong dress for this dream,

a frail canary slip of shoulders,
in such a sheer tawny pitch,
invites murder into the parlor,
as mirrors go dark with regret,
un-corseted, I spill through the seams
of something so fragile,
and mourning

after morning I wake
from that wild darkness
and emerge from inside
your heavy shearling coat,
powder a black slur at the clavicle,
as my throat latches on air,
a broken clasp, pales
among the muddy mirabilis,

we’ve become myth to each other,
this tender conscription of hours
threaded silky occlusions,
crinoline fragments stitched in
rinds of ricepaper and drumlins,
and it’s nothing like destiny,

here’s a wasp thumb deep
in the heart of a pomegranate,
her flesh its own brimstone and poppied,
though we pull out of the impenetrable

the dirtiest bird wings,
bathe them in rosewater,
then plant them in each other’s bodies,
fly,

and why only on Thursdays,
my eyes night like the sky
on the sixth of November,
and my name becomes nothing
but a revision of origami lilies,

although having never known the dirt by feel,
yet, learn to root in wind.

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