December 11, 2016
Your breath takes the night in, your body steeped with stars.
If I were with you now, the rhythm of your breathing in my ears,
the changing moon would spill its light more slowly on my skin, and if
there were a rain falling through your night, its breath and not the rain
would drift into your flesh. No flower breathes so, the air
the rain sheds, other moons going round within its mouth, but this
rose, that your being in my eyes becomes, opening
within the night, the stars, the moon in metamorphosis,
flower there. I cannot speak of blindness now, so seen
through, but what to name the world, memories of rain,
other springs? Nor are you rose, its petal seeking autumns that
I knew, but emanations of the light, reflecting the new moon.
E. D. Blodgett