Just your slow, pink movements near the doorway.
If there were fields, they’d long ago rolled back in agate bliss.
Until you were indelible, a dahlia.
Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over.
Her pale sweet hedging (which,
in certain landscapes,
is an early form of love. )
I want you slow: birds hover near my waist.
Not sleep in the distance but the mimeograph
Above all else, the trembling resembles a forest.