February: Year-day 32

         
                                              
                                       
February: Year-day 32

When a soft rain in a rolling wind's whim
stops my eyes, I picture grassy hills, dew
shivering the pores of my washed-out skin,
the peace a slightly curved thing holds, & you:
woman who is to keep my compass true;
& you: man of my fantasies, kind, thin:
& me: tilted, torn, sniveling a blue
fit, choosing neither you, nor me, nor him.

A heliotrope's effects on the sun
couldn't be more devastating, its stare
peaking that fire's curiosity till
at midday fear takes over, makes it run
from that eye as rapidly as it dared
to toward/ and return tomorrow/ until.

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