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,

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

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,

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

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

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

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