- It is
what scratches in the bush
- Or behind
the chest ribs,
- That is
wanted for the afternoon
- Under the
cedar with butterflies for twigs.
-
- It is red
in the wine that sits
- On a
table of wind and whirl
- Its red
skirt above its knees
- That is
wanted at twilight.
-
- It is the
pollen that specks
- The fuzzy
legs of the bumble bee
- And puts
gold dots
- On the
water of its flowing wings.
-
- It is the
mockingbird's melody
- That
silences the rancor
- Of the
human voice's fish hooks
- And steel
traps hidden in love.
-
- It is the
tossed hair of Circe
- As she
runs from searchlights
- And
soldiers who are ghosts
- To find
her cave and my arms.
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