red glasses suit you just right
and, here, in loud silence of thought and thought
our tongues curl up to fitful slumbers
still sky secretive, chapped with dawn,
nightly gowns suit you just right
but, here, when old moon buckles after long nights’ wanderings
and you stir me no more
I wonder if I will mourn
still, rose serenity will be your name
but I wonder if I will mourn
when marigolds no longer open at your touch
and if do
do so lazily
when hours go by and days then weeks go by
without sweet gusts of you
gentle witchcraft of your swift glances,
and timidly bubbling stews of mine
still, some bits or more of stench
in strange hours of nights will sway
and drag me back back back
and I wonder if I will mourn

an itching, tickling fear it is
that these bees will feed the flowers one day
and the honeyed ache that I have come to like
will be blood and bone again
red glasses
red glasses you will soon replace, and
these words will be yours no more
nor mine, nor mine, oh,
how tearing the future— yet

how cruel the present— yet how cruel
we
you will not talk
and I sneak away into thought
then the spells wait and wait, and the bees
I will myself to forget