I had not expected sex
or had forgotten my body & it’s for sure
a woman’s sound, opened as the splayed
wings of an ivory bird
& breathless in the undone silk of human skin.
An hour ago, I watched
a boy with smudged oval taped glasses
stare mouth ajar, at the tall-legged saxophone
players in the market. New love burst in him this morning
while the cut flowers wagged in their buckets of early summer.
My heart stopped again & began again, something
pure fuchsia, whipping like a strip of lightning,
& how I will miss this world in my mouth,
like the taste of honey, at the end—
if I could just get it all in, just keep singing
with the indigo dawn, waking forever, while farmers
sell red peppers, cherries, apples, storm, red, red
as the breast of the bird who flew into my room in the night—
before the wind raised its voice—
before the thunder opened me
& white hail covered my bed speaking of the future
whispering, again, again,
most certainly sun, most certainly rain.