Oh lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!
-Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Indian Serenade
The neighbors have come back.
Early
this morning while we slept.
Their porch is decorated with prayer flags,
And the swing has been creaking in the
Dewstilling. Heavy with rolled blood--colored
Rugs, tied in new gold twine.
One walks expectedly along a path where the ground has
been overobscured with our grass, but falls short
of the blacktop.
It has been years since I laid eyes on it, but
somewhere there is a photograph of the Yangtze I used
to bookmark a collection of poems
By Percy Shelley. The bronze water pitted
an hour, moving to a stylus point, collaring
One lavender forest into shoulders.
They are coarsely stretched, as if across chimneystone,
Or a bruised knee.
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