The soft fall of flares, of flowers, once the orgasm’s
Over… the body’s empty tube through which no music
Is moving–a sumptuous trumpet dumped in the museum
As if no hand no mouth had ever crossed it.
Who could imagine it rampaging erect,
This piece of rusty history, tucked
Where the bodies of dead moths collect,
Churning to silvery dust as I walk?
Too long have you been unbedded by me
Whose arms once held you like a river
And covered you buoyantly with balsam and kisses
Falling in flakes from heaven forever
To dissolve in yourself, in your sea,
Your wet spring tenderness unending and green.