Diana's flowers fold up their lip-clasped dowries into folded silk.
I gave mine away and continue to do so as soon as women give me the objects.
Meant for my “bottom drawer”, I hand them on - the Dionysian remnants barely touch my fingertips
I barely get to repress my desires.

Our first sentences in the adjoining room
(in lieu of a church) knelt before us,
indigenous, humbly prostrating themselves
as we couldn't just yet.
       Because it is too late
    a vow is taken too soon.

Promises kneel before us like a Sangoma - she breaks
them into portentous bits of dung, thatch and bone, because the sun
has taken itself delicately out of the picture.

Stomata are seeing, hearing and inhaling.
We stand before a conscientious photographer, move left or neaten our smiles.
My breath remains bitten around the dandelion.
Many hours stay behind to extinguish the miles of history
yet to come.

11/01/2006

Posted on 11/01/2006
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