Let’s get drunk on the white blossoms
of faithfulness, the wild carrot fields
have joined the sisterhood of night
Death in his souped-up Corvette just
missed the fox floating quiet as a thought
across the road; you can tell by marks
on her paws, on the brush of her tail,
she was dipped at birth in the inks of desire.
Night’s rustle and tick is the universe
humming to itself in B Flat; it too loves
detours of hunger. Every white flower
in the field is true to those who find
their own way home reciting psalms
of faithfulness; lie down with me
in hollows, my hand is a wing in love
with the tremolo of your heart.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 10
