Still-Dreamt

 

Timidly from the woods

you came,

frost asters growing larger,

learning to love the music

of secret contrivances

and the howlings

of orange marmalade.

Lower your voice

for the deciphering to begin;

follow me

into a chapel of contemplation

where I can

reflect on a sky raining hay

and connect the freckles

and flaws

of your most intimate skin.

There’s nothing heroic

in pretending this isn’t us—

the briefest stretch of fools,

fatal experiments

inhabiting kisses

both lyrical and unrefined,

white-knuckling

not just for the fragility

of survival,

but for this—

an overture of transcendence

in a single note,

a floral spray

of lavender reflections

clipped

to an unsigned card;

a celebration of dead flowers

for all we never were—

futilities of togetherness

tossed

in still-dreamt pieces.