The Pistil

Now that nothing has been done
Before, you can speak of the stigma
             style and ovary
Fourth whorl of the flower
You can run your tongue
Along the lips of the sleeping
No one has touched
Your hair, described the fall of it
Now you can smoke
Indoors, around your daughters
Windows open to spring
Nights that flare up in winter
Words like transparent
Shells attached to the elms
             maples and ash
I hear the people
Because tonight is recycling
Picking through glass
As I write you, slow pour of metal
Into the mold, my speech direct
Because recycled
The prohibition against
Feeling broken like bread
Above the sill, an inferior mirage
Above their heads, minute gaps
Impulses pass through, blue
             sparks rise in the dark
Fourth wall of the flower
Splits at maturity, releases
Sentiment, follicle fruit of it, soft
Space between bones of the skull
Where dreams are knitting
Delicate fallacies, now that bees
The coral and ice, white
Noses of bats, it’s time
To write the first poem in English
Each line the last, small
             rain turning glass