This mad fragrance, several illumined thighs
crisp and moist like bitten celery,
a feather caught between the branches of
the maple in the yard. I remember
the way she slept, the elasticity
of jeans, the rhymes that were her limbs, the ease
of breath that sung to me. I dreamt about
a love in fresh-cut grass, a canvas dress,
an old poem in a book that was buried
behind the school—like our love. And then
I saw the beads of dew upon the stems
of roses, heard her skin in turns of verse
from the 14th century, in her
found loving thought that leads to highest good.
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