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.