Temporary

temporary dressings over temporary wounds.
we seek shelter in an abandon garden and
hope that we will take fruit. In a garden we see many faces often,
the father who takes no notice or the mother who stoops over the dandelions,
the friend who coddles the petunias like sisters and the grandmother who sits still.
we hold candles to the dahlias and when it gets cold, we hope they do not burn.
we hide and lick our wounds in the grass, wimpering and withering like pruned hands.

I held on to you because your voice was soft like a suede glove,
and I liked the unnabraisive hair you could brush up to my temples and say the
only way I could have met you was the only way I could have met you, and the way I could have held you was the only way I could have held you, and we would have
spun around in blurred green clusters where the bushes ran off to meet the sky and
the
sun ran off to meet your eyes, and the way the green houses flitted behind the dark shade of green like the house in the spring
and maybe I could if I stand here.

if I stand here in the green grass in the garden I will remember it as a footpath for soldiers who defend love, keep it in high regard and pay no heed to the
fashion of believing that all we say is trite anyway.

the slow stones are fawn beds for lovers, and the grass is coverlets for milk bodies,
(ours,)
and now and again the firs can pine away for you instead of me.
I may bend over sideways like the arches of a tended forest, my limbs over your limbs or the tree limbs
and patience is a virtue and you are a virtue. But patience is temporary and
burdens are temporary and so was the kiss, the kiss you gave me, too soft and cream, too negligible and sparse, unvaried and smoothing, holding not possessing and static not unstable. I can lie down for hours and notice that you are neither sleeping nor waking, just like the sound of birds flying is not availed to my ears but I trust it is there notwithstanding.