Sweep across your bedroom slowly:
, the mostly purple grays, yellow of a moth or lamp or a winter
Interruption is a rose
, a pink paradise,
dried-blood velvet when the lights are out,
and only the city
comes in through your windows.
Your furniture whispers with a lost tongue
wouldn't know a word of it.
(I am new here, a traveller of a queen's sly fancy.)
Without glasses, the colors wash against each other
uninterrupted except by blinking or fragile kisses.
I sleep on the long sugared plains and valleys, ripe
under a dark sky: the vineyard before a storm.
I'm waiting to taste a drop of rain
that has spent sunrise on a bent, silver leaf.