IF I AM

If I am a rose, what am I
without red clothes?

I want you to know.

EACH SPRING

Each spring a necessary trespass,
a living epitaph.

I wake into willow and may
only affect the yogic position
of blowing away,
yoked as I am to the humanity
that makes me a tree.

Under my gay wallowing, meet me.

SUPINE

Supine, we lie horizoned
on the bed and his head
on my stomach’s a sun,
it rises and sets

as the ceiling sighs in her sleep.

But in the mirror
that we’d suspended there
the beautiful boy with my breasts
is silent in his mouth.

O my duvet blue.