Dragging The Clouds

And my love, when do we talk 
of wilderness 
and daisy blooms? 

The snakeskin― 
twirls, and I watch the 
wriggling night moving away. 

I swallow the 
empty words. They are not 
heavy and no concoction. 

The body and desires. 
I have let then slip away, 
my dreams, my knocks. 

Against the dying of 
blueberries in your eyes, 
I will not wash the stains. 

The curve of umbilicus 
still remembers the dazzling 
fall.