Sunday, January 27, 2013


if I press myself between the fern and the lemon verbena
petticoated & folded to linen white
measured in fragrance of rose gimlet
well, if I did press myself there,
so arched & tight ....
would there be a marigold trace .... a ink orb of light ?
hallway forested in fields of wool & water
rippling pink
smell that ?
a trace of cigar, sunlight & 1967
a mirror taffeta-gilded
reflecting the paper-white hesitation of the day's polished redemption