The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history.
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.
