Winter: hoarse, oracular.
The rain stings, suicidally bitter, like desire.
Why must my legs be bare
All the way up my thighs, cold,
And my soles wet?
Stench of soft bark.
On my fingers the scent of laurel crushed
Freshens, but it does not heal
The darkness in the mind's
Pith.
How did the summer fail?
He placed mouth
Upon my ear.
His warm breath
Moistened my hair.
I heard a god exhale.
But now the haggard wind circling my head
Rasps in burned redwood.
Plagues spring in his stride.
Am I raving? I felt healed.
The heavy wind that breathes in these soaked trees
Rattles through me.
I'm cold.
Wrenched against his intelligent body
I have seen bay branches with his eyes.
They are stripped. They are wet.
They shiver a little, stiffly.
They do not grow very high.
They are darker than all the green around them.
The leaves have tiny waves on the edges like
A smile of wind.
A god might mark them, quiet them,
Move in what is open
Of these laurel leaves
Most tenderly.