At home this very minute
the sweet olive is flowering,
turning the air heavy and heady (how
did you get so sticky with want?)
Stay outside too long and you
get drunk on it, go zigzagging
through the neighbors' yard and avow
you will sleep in the grass
because you want to keep smelling that smell
until the small apocalypse of the dawn
Approach the sweet olive tree directly
and you can't smell a damn thing
because redolence is a gift
(so sidle, breathe, wait)
Meanwhile you expand,
hippy as a rosebud and just as knockout
I could spend days in awe
of your melliferous mouth
as we wait for the breeze to bring us sweet olive
(a secret
that flies to the corners
of your mouth and turns them
slowly
upward)
No comments:
Post a Comment