June or July

Grosgrain ribbon Beige, Bronze, Brown

wrapped on the bias

all around the pointed toes

of your clicking shoes

that snap and catch on my mid-morning peruse.  I wonder if you would take me to the garden, the bois beyond the Square,

plunge past the fountain’s shush, pin me to a shag-barked tree and fix me there. 
Your kisses would slur my name, smudge carmine crayon smoky sweet cardamom
 & marzipan.

I can’t change. I can’t change. I’m tumbling in the tangled

briar,

 in turbid swirls of venery tumultuous, cirrus wisps feather-tipped high

dear

&

drained.

Restless trees shift green leaves

in your eyes
&

then curl

up

again.