January 25, 1989

It was only her arms you wanted— made of flesh
mostly remote soft water.

You called the western element—
not divine, a mother really— marble, unavailable Venus.

Like a blessed well— memory filled the sea outside
the window— purple red flowers in ebb and flow of silk.

Behind ecstasy— trembling in twilight—your wings not
of brown earth, yet words of bluest ink.

Your left arm held faithful to the page all the while—
your right danced mocking spirals— sensuous elbow

Impudent to the wrist each day and night til
yearning reached its end.