She harvests roses,
rivers,
righteousness.
The world watches her sleep.
Birds peer through her window
like so many anxious dignitaries in a
court of intrigue.
She wears the scent of sun
in a vial around her neck.
He will hunt her better nature.
color his prayers with her name.
This is yearning –
to be jealous of the air
because it can touch her everywhere at once.
In his suit of wool and guilt
he watches her pick bouquets of breeze,
spinning in a plain of demolished satisfaction.
At night, he whittles mathematics down
to an immaculate paste of 2
and rubs it over his body
Tomorrow he will wait by the light
and draw her in with his want song.
Miniature Moon 