Her flavor is
            the grief of honeysuckle
            a prophet’s winter garden
            the word for grasp in every language
            a would-be father’s premonition of regret
            a window slowly brightening
            green shade as spoken of in a lost verse of scripture
            a frock of honey bees
            a yellow cloud above the thought of paradise
            night-bleach
            a dream vacation full of firm, exhausted bodies
            a holy gate that never, ever closes
            a field of wild poppies, tremoring with secrets
            the possibility of leaving what I’ve been behind
            beyond the hurricane of evidence
            delight in edges, endings
            what’s left when all but truth is stripped from me