After the Open House
When you draw this home, you omit a certain window:
disordered vision. Your bright eyes seek nearer shoreline.
Location. Temptation. No one stirs, no one digs
through your miseryheap. Dress slides up thigh,
language exposed. Words curve in mouth,
tongue pushing tongue. You are fever: sunlit flowerstem.
In the din of your plumage the afternoon sepias toward invisible.
Smoke. Light. Forgiveness has the consistency of syrup.