she is not a servant to scattered branches,
rains, the absurdity of soft pillows;

she is sandalled with blue curves of time,
supple, silken, wrapped around,

she is turning (while i head back, my lips,
my life, my limbs, all ripple-ringed,

each moment slow unpetalling, blue flowers, each
a congregation of eternities)

and punctual as moonless night (her black hat)
she dances; to rhythms of stone, slow turnings of pale stars,
interwoven skies entangled now by bare-limbed trees;

she is not a servant to scattered branches, she
holds fast the seasons in her fingers,
lets gently fall the years.

Copyright © Mark Everett 2000, all rights reserved. Used with permission.

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