An Imagined Afternoon

just writing...

in the garden
amidst so much color
so many species
where flowers open themselves
to the foreplay of insects
and clouds unable to contain themselves
burst    the sweet joy of their liquid
upon my skin    deep in my mouth

here there is a space
for Lorca and Whitman
among the pansies

I imagine Ovid gong from lavender
through thyme to roses
that the mail arriving at my door
would have genitals
that the boxes filled with my past
neatly stored in the basement
would be giving birth
to some insistent crying wonder

as bird deliver me
into a forest of plenitude