my lover flirts with the world—
                                         anoints its muddy feet with honey
                                                                     and wipes them clean
 with a tuft of her hair.
                                          she does not get lost
                                                                                     in the miracle

of sanctity. she philanders
                                          under low bridges in sparse cities
    shooting up coquetry.

                                                                                  and it knows her—

blackbird harpist,
                                          she leaves her lyric
                                                                           in its breadth.

                                          she could warble anything at all
                                                                                         and make it lovely
   the moon is fifty-three percent full
                                                                                      of loneliness—
the world finds her melody,
                      over and over again
                                                                                          a soul returning
      to its collection of bones.

                                                                        look at her
                                                  angling her head like an erotic fossil,
                                                                                     making eye contact,
caressing her forehead
                                         with a handkerchief of wilderness.
i had hoped to be split
                                         from her and earth’s body,
                                                                                   almost invisible,
               a tiny cell
                                                       spared double entendre.
her fountain of come hither,
                                                 pheromones
                                                                     like a thousand moths.

                                                                            but how stupid i am
to separate myself,
                                             hide under a small dead leaf.

she lingers in trees,
                                                  singing that there is only sweet
    nothing to understand—like a bee,
                                                                        effleurer the carnation.