The female should always be secret, you said.
Women, like figs—rotten
when open.

The bread and the candle: pale leftovers
         from the last milling, the last box of singular suns.

I went every few days. Not real woods, but overgrown
estates where people could walk among tangled
rhododendrons that branched and drooped in the shade

First, you should know it’s a dream. I’ve been reading
about her. She sits opposite me
at the table, overlooking the river. Snaggletoothed,

I nearly drowned. I nearly burned.
We were in a train wreck once.
I wouldn’t eat. He gave me the bouquet.

Oh Wednesday, and I gave my coats away. Tied
them in a thick embrace, took them out
the door like a corpse. The old list in the old

If I came to you when you were old, in pain
adrift, angry, if I came again and again,
bringing the little gifts of flowers, of my flowering

What they call cool,
cooler & cold, although green
under the skin.

Yesterday the ocean opened its minatory door
         and suggested that the land, from South Carolina
         to New England, had best come inside.

And afterwards, the sea befriended us,
gave away its fish. It drank its own
deep cup and did not pour the fishers down