Your porcelain feet glide
through grass still spotted
with this morning’s dew,
bending blades and time
and, from darkness,
my complete,
possessed attention,
as onto fallen limbs you hop,
pressing leaves, twigs, beetles,
into wooly moss,
like engraved invitations
left for the dryads,
then onward, into the garden
you dance, whirling your way
through wild strawberries,
their juices staining, blessing,
anointing your pale feet red
so that later,
as we slumber in the vines,
you press dyed soles
to my cracked, hollowed ribs
as badness and sorrow,
jagged stones rupturing flesh,
escape from me,
and by you I am reborn.
コメント