What to make of

But she didn’t know what to make of can-he.

Her flowers told themselves to saints, and she understood why.

Can-he, she said, knees in the daisies.

Call again grass from him. Pendant prays into the belly of her neck, like:

Take hips to waves, wash them there. Stand by, shell in hand, sing can-he

over and over as fish do–nebula-spun, spinning

pray these things in spring and, hip-bitten, moon the face of God–

do it. Get under daisies till love letters wild-birth themselves silly–

But she didn’t know what to make of can-he, bought tomatoes,

listened to Brahms, told the banister silly things–these daisies

inside, hips and perhaps.

Perhaps moon-face God. Walk towards,

Do it. Letters love but she didn’t wave hips as nebula-

fish, spinning, can-he’s.

Bought tomatoes, banistered herself to Brahms, called again

daisies–can-he, God-faced-grass, pray in her hips

pendant in neck-belly, can-he.

Wash them there, tomatoes, heart-shells

wild-birth themselves–saints do, said,

Do it. She didn’t know what to make of why.


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