Rich

or, Give Me That

that flowering, that naked way
where oranges spill out from shells
and purple orchids, crisp like lettuce,
stiff like bells,
are sprinkled ’cross the gentle rims
that arch so delicate and thin.

That sunny, that baked on way,
when women bend their thoughts around
to fit the curve of their own lips,
soft and brown.
They free the angels from the sky
to fall to earth with happy sighs.

These days, the thing to wear is gold;
Green linen is immortal now
And opulence inspires awe
and changes lives.

These days, the thing to be is old;
I wear my senses on my brow
And beckon hearts out onto sleeves
from where they hide.

That holy, that incense way,
where censors swing and spout perfume
and fabric rustles in the room, under gowns
more odors bloom
and burst from underneath the hem
of sweaty, absent-minded men.

That delicate and subtle way…
Sometimes a garden, sometimes a bouquet,
sometimes a story, other times a dream,
initiates
a sparkling stream of images
that blend to form a hollow in the sand.

June 18, 1994

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