Above me you turn like an acrobat
on blue string,
your feet small and accurate.
You are so far away.
My love is not enough to pull you
through the landscaped sky
to this night-wet garden.
It is February.
The bulbs are shooting,
the moon is slipping
dripping stars, hot and sticky.
I am not with you, this simple fact.
Here, I am alone,
climbing from my underground incubation
calling your name
like dewdrop, crocus,
narcissus.
Tonguing the raw tender air.
I miss you. Here and now,
this moment,
my body opens just one way,
the way of the garden moving towards
morning, towards March,
June. Soon spring, that darling--
Soon you, marking every cell of me.
--from the collection Steam-Cleaning Love, Brick Books, 1993
