PJ Nights

Oscar Wilde imagines tulips
      brushing his ankles.

Lilies-of-the-valley brush hers –
   in this green hour a flower
short in stature whose pervading perfume

     rises from the deep dark dirt
          they bed down upon.

Oscar Wilde imagines tulips
      brushing his ankles –
their panther faces, eager and upturned
               crawling into his arms

from a white cemetery on the first
    affectionate day of spring.

Oscar Wilde imagines two lips,
   hers            this tiny woman
still wearing dark's cloak heavily
      about her shoulders.

The day ignites slowly, with words
stolen from ancient angels –
      the earth breathes through
the louche of new grass.

      Oscar Wilde imagines

her lips, tulips – her large sighs
for weeping willows unbuttoned.
 

Poems © PJ Nights 2004-2005. All rights reserved.