moth-winged
the sail spread
crepuscular
oranges, red.
lines of sky,
sea. i
fold;
stems bend,
petals
before thee,
o strange
one oh
mystery.
she plays
intermittently
with hair,
hands,
her art
eukinetic
leaves no trace of cutting.
strikes the object of her knowing.
i don’t care
languid
on the stairs
self-possessed
w ½ a glass
let us
modulate
let us
take the air,
francesca.