Untitled, with Peonies in Bloom
My lover lies in the midst of her dream.
On her bedside table, a bottle of oil.
The smell of almonds, a clear vase
filled with peonies, pink and darker
at each petal's edge, their heads round
as worlds, each bloom carved
with the curve of my lover's breasts.
The flowers' centers
are hidden. Her nipples
are dusk as the petals' lips.
In her dream, outside the window,
ivory moths made of paper
dance against the pane,
and on each of their wings, a word
I speak to her as she sleeps, moon
spilling over the grass and through
the glass, over the vee of darkness
held at the juncture of her thighs.
She turns to face the moon
and the flowers bend, strain
against the vase that holds them,
press toward her. Her lips open
on a long exhalation. The petals slip,
part, the blooms open like eyes.
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