Indigo petals, dew beading in their darker folds,
The memory of cinnamon like alms,
A poet’s hidden tune: all was flush
In the days of our setting out
I could rest my cheek against the soil
Dreaming the vastness of lips,
The smooth incomprehensible of touch,
The seething tendernesses shared
And all the fulsome earth our mimicking
Perhaps you knew
About the blade-like line beyond the haze
Under the fell of an eye-less heaven
How could I miss it
In the creases of our bright
Voluptuous streams,
The cloven rivulets like parting hair
Scanter now, the journeying, I know –
But come, against the bark of some unnamed tree
Let us embrace,
Against the heedless joy of evensong