—after Lavinia Greenlaw
Moths feather your far gazebo
like young sailors on first leave.
You know something, and keep reminding me
of my own needs. You see an audience
of blooming heads and sugared bank notes,
and act accordingly. The swallows see it at five o’clock,
a Wolfman’s tragedy.
They hang themselves upside down,
handsome sienna prizes in the semaphore of bats.
Swayed by a summer night, I swing out
to your silk pocket square standing at attention,
a bird about-face. You’re the dark dew on the green grass of home.