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We make love in sadness, on the couch
in the middle of winter, everything's green
here where the weather never changes, the moon
would refuse if she could, remain always a round
eye
in the night, its yellow whole on you
and
me, lovers. After all, lilies
bloom with her blessing for lilies,
know her color and ours and the couch,
a bitter black, a monster you
refuse to replace. I insist on green,
a new scheme, my mind wanders, the eye
goes
back to the moon
at the window, who knows she'll always be moon,
is sure of it, as the flowers are sure of their
form, lilies
you've bought. I look you in the eye--
irises rendered simply in the white, dark as this
couch
you love. But the lilies persist, the buds, green
sheathed,
are imagining their blooms and you
who knew enough to buy them, you
humored them, too, as the moon
does now, knowing the green
is entirely temporary, the lilies
will bloom and wilt, give out like this couch
and
your precious eye,
and mine reflected there, a tiny eye.
Now in this moment we wish, you
and I pray, in a way. The couch
creaks, concurs, and there's a steady moon-
glow over all: us, the lilies,
Their
certainty spilling out a green
promise, that our winter will be good, green
like we never imagined. This eye,
yours, is perfect, and the lilies
too, unmistaken, and you
seem to know it, turned to the moon
at
the window, to the black country of couch.
What is this secret you share with the
lilies?
Look in my green eye and tell me you
toil
not, that you'll trust the moon and toss the couch.
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