I'm something she hears

[ I'm something she hears ]

Where did I get the idea, hours ago,
to write a poem out of belles?
The palinode next to me is very small;
she is smaller and lighter and whiter
than I’d expected. I’d hardly seen anyone
for days, exactly the way I'd wanted to
see them. And then I smell your orchid
wings as the moon came out, and a hard
wind lifting pollen out of your hair.
Each rose hip holds a few achenes.
Each vowel holds the greatest sonority
far from the feathered rustle of sheets.
Coneflowers can be,
                        but do resent being
moved. In the first dream, I've forgotten
what broght us together, reminding
me how comfortably you fit within
the familiar outline of my body.
The number of blows required
to completely rid the clock of its seeds
is deemed to be the time of day.
In the first dream, I kissed your temple
without disturbing the perfume of hair.
Thus there was no time of day.
In the first dream, I've lost something,
O coneflower, you awoke, alone, on the couch:
a heartbreaking poem among many
heartbreaking poems.
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