Unfinished

Is the moon spun of pearl, is it gathered
like honey and festooned with the smoke
from bitter herbs? Does milk foam better
with or without an egg in it? Is the bed
softer made or unmade, tousled by love
or not at all? Is a square of cotton or pressed
linen kinder for tears or for starch? And that
moment when the woman opens her eyes and looks
into the face of the one she walked away from
years ago— is that the depth or the height
of being, the tally of what has been lost
or found? I do not want to have to choose,
I do not wish to pare it down to just one
or the other— Everything is the ground
of our affections, everything is this moment—
the red dress you wear which is both brighter
and darker than flame, the surface of the table
which gleams like our skin, like our faces: rich
with the grains of the past and the not yet here—

 

In response to thus: close to the ground.

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