The rose of cheeks, the hair in flow and flux
about her shoulders, the seam of the plain
clothing she is wearing. I hear the trains
make a sound five miles a way, the Moon waxes
above the bayou whose scent mingles with roux
and a marsh fire. The tide begins to wane
in the early morning, I start to explain
the flight of birds, their song and their sex
to her. This whirling system seems a dance
of intoxicated gods, watch the satellite fill
with white light and move in the dark space
between the stars. The stuck sound of the walls,
the openings of doors, who among this place
can describe her with recourse to the real?
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