Eosphorus is the star of the eastern morning,

you tell me, as our abode shifts under

the weight of you, a rousing odalisque. In your

wake, you will leave me suffocated with it

the glory of the morning.

 

Featherlight are you,

like the larkspur! The lady’s slipper

suits, too! Yet by turns a hyacinth

in blue, too, colors you! Daily, upon my tongue,

is the morning’s glory.

 

In that furtive gap,

between Moon and Sun,

the morning star guides you

from our abode. Your dress

of belladonnas and verbenas—

its warp and weft a columbine

of mine. My taut mouth aches,

from the glory of this morning.

 

Tell me, bluebell, when you rise

up into the glorious violet of this morning,

will you remember the forget-me-nots

of this abode?