To One Looking out of a Bay Window
The flower of the sunset caresses your cheek with its orange-rose hand,
the velvet of its fine nap kissing the same on your skin;
to utter that I wish to follow is too much, too much;
and so with a lover’s heart crouched behind the eyes of a friend,
I’ll gaze without jealousy
as you reach for the warmth of her slender fingers beneath the steadily falling curtain of autumnal dusk.
I am a silly courtesan. I am a flower dried of her perfumed strength, a dog sitting patiently at the door in the rain,
sighing without imposition. I will become unseen; I will wait on a chain of my own choosing; on the floor speckled in
stunning shattered glass, a parched paint-stroke blooming to be overlooked. A rose in your lapel—is this the beauty
that trains the cogs of your ambition? Dried petals beneath your feet, and no sweetness scattered through pellucid
shards; don’t pause when I snatch up sunbeams in my hands—leave, brush your palms clean, tread past the door and
keep walking—it is merely a trick of the moon.