Fred Wah

The Proof of the Crocus

She said that our skin goes to soma with touch
fingering those leaves on the prairie floor past
purple as the shape of salt lapse hand in mind
with a toe-headed baby over to anemone alpine
memory hand in hand with old paper-thin precision
dialing our on-mode a slight rub our aura of ghost
buds gyna'd past hand power through stem into
night so summer heat toggles the nipples lifts
into seed.

The East Village Poetry Web