Friday, January 11, 2019


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