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a sun's smudged makeup | a sun's new makeup

Woman to Old and Desiring Man



        My flesh a gate of neither ivory
nor thorn, in the winter-long flood-
tide of longing. Prairie winds restrain


your hand whose dark temptations
forces forth as forcing poses force
desire. I never granted you the gate,


not even on request. Instead I granted
ocher acreages under rinds of a lemon
sun still fraught with white, whose light


is less desire than anatomy tonight.
There, where you could tender-touch
both oat and canola, sunflowers

as though from Tuscany, how all 
you ever did was tender-gazing on
the gate of neither ivory nor thorn.


I've told you no trespass' allowed.
I'm no Leda. You - now swan. O
what short, and shortening, winter.