Romantic GesturesOne pressed me against a white oak,
its branches preparing to hand down the evening,
lengthening like my shoulder blades the possibilities
of that intersection between normal
and beautiful. This quiet day surprised by intrusion,
a front door’s insistence on the outside,
wide as anyone’s comprehension of it,
beautiful as a dress, and the tree
was a way of speaking, and up through the limbs
hung a distance of blues and whites.
What else should I remember? There were blooms
whose petals felt like flesh,
the flesh of a hand, or a mouth, petals
cream at the tip, their desperate move
toward the sepal, the ovary, that
fevered the cream to a pink; but still,
What white oak? What afternoon?
The body’s inability to be a part
of the popular world. So, I would like to say,
so, I let the dress fall open,
I let go of my dress, we opened the dress
together, as if uprooting flowers,
as if for a moment its pattern of dogwood
began a bloom, and now the landscape
was inside it, this ceremony
of the dress, how it could become
a little diaphanous threshold
against the rational world of things.
Amy Newman********************
RL
If you have a request for a certain Poet, post their name in the thread and I will find a poem by them and post it...
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