I have a dream.
She’s in an attic room
with someone else,
hands in her skirt and that
dove sound caught in her throat
that I thought was ours.
She’s with him now, she bends into his kiss
– and when she slows his hand, they swarm
like bees,
a honeyslick, an
aftergloss of meadow;
easy and damp,
though not without a trace
of venom, they are pure
as animals and
selfless,
like the rhythm in the heat
that, now and then, mistakes itself
for hunger;
and blessèd, strung like pearls on molten wire,
to bell and cry beneath a hunting moon,
they come together; live; unwarranted;
a braid in every touch, a flame for longing.