"His Marriage Vow"
He clutches her wrist and draws
her downhill. Then clutches down a gear the spin of jean
jackets and pants. They gear lips ready to kiss
with a lick of cinnamon. Jettison windy breaths into pants:
run run a windy road that snakes a shore,
then stop among oak limbs, too exhausted to shore
each other's limbs. Where lavender plants cough clouds
from purple glands, clouds curled like the shoulder she plants
in a pillow of grass. Purple thoughts. And he lies
beside her and whispers, like the crinkle of leaves, lies
moist as dew. Leaves but hopes his ghost
huddles close to her. Alone. Wrapped in her arms. Mountain dew,
liquor of wanting. Huddles of dark birds. Feathery downs. Folded wings.
He downs vodka and shadows with the thought of her breath,
the thought of closing lips – closing doors:
the lips of a sheet gather in a long arm of cloth he dreams
of seizing down a slope, where he’d gather her hands
to weave them into a bower, how two hands slope
like down-draft calendar pages, a weave of the threads the fates continue
to spin. A draft made in veil and tux.
© 2007 Hephaestes
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