on their own fire the seeds and branches
of twilight, the blood alert within the mysteries
opening drenched layers of woman's skin.
Mysteries of the drunken face,
of the green olive darkening,
and the heaviness of the embarking leaf,
the horn of wheat, and the warm loaf,
the dripping plum, the child fallen asleep
in the sling of corduroy close to your breasts―
twins of silk and heat. My mysteries,
like those the small
sea birds sing of the ones
content to eat from the debris along the shore, oh .. I believe
.. Listen
Violin
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