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What is it that in fog gapesso mellowly under the sageheart of your dark gardens?

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What is it that in fog gapes
so mellowly under the sage
heart of your dark gardens?


Who is it that savages
in such starving beauty
the forest berries among
your ribcage—the gates?


I wish it was me, a dragonfly,
inhaling your nectarine
skin rich in the scent of light.


I wish it wasn't me, a brute,
sitting astride on your lap
with my hands upon your throat,
stained in starlit purple.


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