At first it is fleeting-
as a brush of lips rainbowy
over prismatical glass

then it is warm,
a faint wetness, remembered
as rain on tinted embers

there is a flash, that could be lightning-
or a white bird, a kiss
plush in a glow of silence

the world disappears-
you think you're dreaming,
withering

you dwarf and stubble and stumble
above the stalks that rise as love does-
nonetheless

the cold shapes of the flowers
call back
laughter

now, you are a candle
no! you are candled;
you have a wick

but you're translucent,
dearth and famine-
the rivers of his arms

enfold you:
his shimmers beat your heart
phosphorescent

there is a giving up-
a thirst toward God: and then,
even the stars go lost.



� 2004 by Dorothy Mienko