Evening's rut of light bends all

antlered prisms to the water,

spotting that kindred skin

with a thousand new

densities.

Light drifts, wet and rosy, poured

from kindled skin falling.

Orphaned

waves graze, splaying

the soft dark feet of dusky fawns.

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...that stray dog

is plundering fresh

our trash cans.

He wonders at

something in the

flowerbed, lifts

his wounded

wandering leg.

I curl back

red curtains, lips

from my own

canines. Must

run him off now

or forever

invite him in -

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Sunday,

there was

the prophylactic

application

of a dozen roses. The

petals of what he was

about to say, then

thorns -

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I won't ask you to love me forever: Just wrangle me a cloud,

one of those puffy white ones, no dark ones allowed.

From its cotton

I'll make us

halters, leads

of cosmic rope -

There'll be no riding into the sunset:

We'll leave all

that below. Take

the buck out of that rainbow for...

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See how she lies for the first time on the earth that grew her:

A newborn on her mother's stomach, an old woman to her relief?

How faithfully that grainy womb recorded her reaching -

like me, she lifted her limbs to the light but was held by her feet.

In the cold of her own rings...

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