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.