The flower pod, green-white, hand sized,
bloomed at night. As the dead increased,
the world of objects seemed more dense,

It was a human place. On either side
young women and young men held manmade things
contrived for widening their lives. Some held,
by way of opened books, a separate and singular repose
so much less tense than the precision of any open flower.
There were no flowers; every torso was arranged
to complement the object of its thought. It was understood

When we said logic was transcendental,
we felt other words we might have said
find form the way shadows find form, with dependence

Collect and recollect. These things I do
within, where, present with me is the world

A mirror pressed against a mirror makes
a locked infinity, a bliss ruined by entering,

they said a painting demonstrates failure to see
the portion of a woman not created with brush strokes,

The women were the room and the room was full,
not of women but of cadences and bedclothes, cadences
     irregular

She is of a size that can float there. But
when she opens her body and slides forward, time enters

I saw its inhabitant. It was you, honey, and your body.

There is a clearing one hopes one is coming to
magically and without accountability but with
grave understanding any minute like a thing

One shoulder breaking the tension of a satin slip,
making the strap fall loose inside the dress.
Bend of the gesture sliding the strap back, into place,

What I thought was stillness
was not stillness. What else would
a tall girl love but hills to stand on

When his arms raise it’s all he knows of how
a body opens. Light and full,
his body in the moment just before she touches him