I. Swelling hour, ebbing light, dusk to night
—deep and deeper still—
Stealing light as May’s shifting breeze
Steals sound: still and deep and silent.
Still in swelling hour’s silent depths
May’s maternal night shelters
The fugitives of ebbing light.
II. Blades in night-dark pasture stretch
And reach and reach and grasp
Then bend and sway as they
Cannot stretch enough to reach
The pale, pale, curvaceous flesh
—Flesh they cannot grasp—
Blades that envy the tips of fingers
So impressed against the flesh
—The pale, indulgent flesh—
So impressed they mark and mar
With nary a protest.
III. Fire-red, honey-hued spill
Slightly framing slight bones—
Structure frail and sharp and fierce.
Amber and oak peek up past feathered lashes
Slightly intoxicating, slightly wicked,
Vivid even in the ebbing light;
Light stolen away by deepening night.
Garnet swollen-sweet flesh parts
A sound, she speaks, a whisper.
She exhales a honeyed breath;
Noise slight, and yet
Piercing in the still of night
Beads of flesh’s fever drip
And wet and wet and trace
And shift and part as they
Cannot drip enough to sate
Heated, aching flesh
—Flesh they only trace—
Beads that envy tips of fingers
So impressed against the flesh
—Fevered, indulgent flesh—
So impressed they tangled and bind
Flesh now pliant and wholly possessed.
IV. Stretching morning, ebbing night,
Dawn of light—pale and paler still.
Stealing night as May’s passing breath
Steals shelter; still and pale and stripped.
Still in stretching morning’s stripped pallor
May’s jovial light exposes
The fleeting largess of ebbing night.
RJ Plant 