Splendid Whatever

The moths wing against the blinds, punctuating the silence.

I’m doing it again, what I’ve always done;

trying to gauge what you want so you will find me lovable.

I picture you as you were at that wedding
and dream of your hair all night,

bury my fingers into the dark loam of curls
and bring them to my lips,
sweet lime and linden and sweat.

In the morning I smooth the sheets
and wonder about your skin,

Could I still glide my hand so freely down your back?

You have a picture of me, too, somewhere,

red-cloaked in distress:

The big bad wolf will eat me alive, can I come

to your room and hide?

Wurbly Wurbly Wurbly cried the Robin Sentinels.

Lilac trees plumed thin and yellow-white by your door.

You let me in.

You entertained me with masks and stardusts
and velvety cream pastels.

You slept on the floor and I on the bed.

Toms troubled the alley and thunder rumbled far away,
but sleep blanketed us in softly tufted counterpanes.

Tell me, now, has the grass grown tall? 

Do you brush against the stalks,

caressing the flush of the seed heads

as they seethe so warm and summer green?