V

Let her quince knees sag
and the toy arcs of the dew
and daisy
guide her mild feet
Her torso is no more to me
than the woodcut of a nun.

In a peignoir snowing to her ankles
she paces the movement
of sun and dark.
Her step is like the pulse of lilies.

All motion blurs the scented yaw of her skirts
(linen like the subsiding of labials,
like the undertow in the veins).

While the three tenses
faltered between her painful thighs
a wind of scarves rose

Will no briny thunderbrunt
or green chill