A man on 26th Street sets moon flowers to start
in egg cartons on a table beside his bed.
Soon they will loop around the gray windows louvers
twining sweetness through his dreams.
Close your eyes, give way
and the sheets, yes, your skin,
are her skin and take the voice,
take your own hand with her voice guiding
and here are the flowers opening like time-lapse
photography--tendrils finding the small
pocks in the concrete, close now,
the moon of her face lifts between your thighs.
What is real? The man slapping potting soil
from his hands? A prediction of tides
from the lunar chart of water rings
the carton leaves on the table's wood finish?
And where is she? Whisper her name
and static answers, open the windows
and the silent trumpets of the flowers
dip and rise casually in the air.