Glittering rhetoric that gets nothing done,
ravishing images of love and desire
clogging the brain
so that the ladder sways dangerously
and the paint can tumbles
drenching the hydrangeas in ultra-white.
A storm is rolling in.
Neighborhood dogs race for cover.
Sky that was bitter indigo
is now the frank black
of boot polish or endless sleep.
Or the silk stockings you’ve put on
to study yourself in the bedroom mirror
turning this way and that,
winking ever so slightly
at the broadening expanse of your ass
while a dove and I peer in the window.
One of us ultra-white as the days
before color,
one of us gray as the rains of this morning
starting and stopping,
starting and stopping
like they can’t for the life of them
decide what to do.
A Dove And I
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