Crocus, dark
bulb starting a slim leaf,
you hide your blade
at your stomach.

Soon it will ease
into dirt, a small tongue
to kiss silt. A cut.

Love, I don’t have
a grip on tenderness—
those ruffed crests
of pampas grass crush

in my hands.  I test
red blades beneath:
they slit gills along
my fingers. I travel

from red edge to feathers,
is this tender?  I can’t
be sure.  I saw a goose
swoop up. She left like

an adze wedged into
wooden clouds. I stood,
rooted. We decided
to accept our luck,

the way a mare lowers
her nose over a fence,
parts shuttered lips:
Here’s her overbite.

She clicks at slipped apples,
her teeth close
around fruit
precisely as calipers;

although leaves are tapping
against apples,
and thrumming like bells
through white fields.

Now this morning,
after rain, when streets gleam
like syrup, you
are the woman who stretches,

tipping her chin back. Outside,
dark arrows pass
at the window.  Birds
sound a quiver of distances.

Inside the room,
light girds our two bodies
like wire in a cloisonné bowl,
glazed and separate enamels.