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?