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Alogon

 

 

 

 

 

The pressed human form like a bellflower in book or in motion

 

or maids making do on butterless days.

 

There is a pearl and there the feathery biologic ash of nightingale bones

 

in application upon the tired face and tired throat.

 

There is a dewy bloom beneath your powder

 

& Aphrodite with cyberose stems along the invisible track, the Senate-size bed.

 

Chrysanthemums shrivel in butcher’s salt and the sleeper awakens

 

buttery deciduous form.

 

If she were Italian her name would be Flora,

 

her eyes roses of the Republic like red bees.

 

Crashing then dreaming about the wreckage.

 

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