The first time you put on that dress of liquid honey
sweet-scented transparent tight-fitting I thought
of linden lavender and fields of heather so purple
I started to knead two loaves of spelt and wheat
springy presently enclosed in rough crusts
the one reminiscent of earth
the other merrily risen.
Lined with mud and down your nest was perched high
in the crown of a tree whose name now eludes me
my attention held by the song of maddened
wasps crickets untamed bees your heavenly thighs
oh the bulging flower of your navel
oh the dough of your toiling gable
with windows facing a sun in the languid west.
What matters now is the dark water my rain barrel
has retained with an eye to the bone-dry months
when my herb garden longs for murmured humming.
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