At times,
the body cannot abide
its loneliness,
that old gray mare,
hoards its fading wilderness
in a windowsill of herbs, frost, again
brittles the grass darkens the reckless bud,
and Wednesday is held beneath the ruinous mantle of dusk,

ain’t what she used to be,
vellum leaves lit like lanterns, red
ivy climbing onto the far wall,
there are traces of a wingspan
at the peripherals of night outside my window,
streaks of ash and moonflower hang
across a splintered trellis,
perennials curl with evening primrose,
nocturnal, exposed, the body,
an old gray mare in disguise,
often resents its cage,
limits its intake of nougat,
and must be coaxed through the doorway,

ain’t what she used to be,
ain’t what she used to be,

I will be here until morning,
for the garden needs tending,
Hosta blooms slightly
under the canopy of your arms
there is a surf of blackwater,
and these vague fevers recede
into the body’s gray feathers,
my scarred and eager palms
till rigid rows,
but solely on paper does my garden grow,
and for all the dark moments
when I am draped in silence,
I give you roses

as so many smaller throats
collapse into limp bouquets,
and spill soundless as pink stamens
asleep, the flesh
in its own fire and poppied, pities
the glass and its distance from the sill.


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