When you lay your hands above your head
and I have all of you like the king’s peaches
or the limbs of something very lithe,
the thin tendril of espalier in winter,
the pert bud of a fig like a button,
the furtive primrose at the dark foot
of the old wall where the late light
of this last January day shines as if for angels.
In Trieste and our difficult bed you sat
back on your heels and instructed me
in French about délicatesse
in an altogether different sort of light,
like the silk of your blue camisole
or the half moon through a grey scrim.
Tu es la femme assise ici. Toujours.
These old walls are still alive with us.