The orangery takes on a different shape
when you enter. Citrus branches stretch
until birdsong fills the canopy,
until dappling shadow covers us,
until their freshness takes on depth,
earthy like loosed leather and sweat,
like moss underfoot, bark against back.
I could whisper, if you wanted, breathe
secrets like wind to the very edges of
our windowed grove, but we've no cause
to hide what already lives in the dirt:
these trees know they're ours, my love,
so why shouldn't I sing?
For my friend on the occasion of her wedding. What I know of mirrors is their imperfection, their imbalance of mathematics: one reflects one, & we imagine this is wholeness & we believe we know oursel
For my friend on the occasion of his wedding. No eye for art, you said, and turned toward Hunger, livid color leaving you cold, neither keen, nor compelling, not enough, not when you already know how
It is not Death that watches us with suspicion, yet you invoke Her name anyway, make of Her a boundary, make of me an earthen intimacy. There is no revelry in roots no matter how deep they run, only f