Ephemerae

I could not sleep while you slept.
Any little animal might have sheltered
in your body; and I kept
leaves from your eyes and things from your hair
until your lips revived, bending
back my fingers to the lessons
of water and thirst. Fires that night
digested the wet, and when their long viridian
became your arms and a delirium
became our legs, threads
relinquished us, and we were not puppeted
by earth, and we were not puppeted
by heaven. We became
larger than form and texture and scent--
something like clouds--and fear was driven
from the manger of our bellies, and anger's thin
lips could not diminish us. We ate everything
that was red,
and everything red
was delicious. My sap was greening
your milky body, then your legs slapped.
They slapped into fins and you arced
and my chin and
ear separated, and silver and more silver and silver
again, I quivered behind you.



Ephemerae [#47]
© 2000 Fammerée


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“Ephemerae” appears in Lessons of Water & Thirst,
a book of poems by Richard Fammerée.

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Richard Fammerée
fammeree.com
fammeree@att.net
director@universeofpoetry.org


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