Petunia Tubers / The Patience of a Breath
12/13/2006 05:39 a.m.



Petunia Tubers / The Patience of a Breath

How gently the stooped sun cascades into our faces.
Who holds the other end of the petunia's lilac tubers, who traces
their shadows into the patio and how deep are that god's fingers?
the sun must be the fingertip,

      to end so gently in a gold orb for each flower;
      a glass blower controls each tuber & bowls hot life into Universe.

Freed from the whitened cement urn, they flip their lips,
how gently the sun bares, wears its tears. In the same vein,
I am always remembering the end – of us, of myself,
believing that the sun shall announce that end, that reunion with god.

Leaves marry stems and limbs of strangers,
feet swept off by the street's mimicry of love;
the Christmas lights are gay; apartments are being made complete
for the season's tenants.

You can tell by the sea today i am alone
by the sea, but not alone
      in lambskin water and milk peril
feeling unnecessarily sensual:

I imagine the tide undressing us, saying,
      “How gently soft are your jeans
stropped in petunia whorls dyed femurs.” The petunia's echo
“From behind your heels too end in suns.”