The long nails are blue at the ends
of your ivory fingers.
Upon the codex of glass
twenty fingers snap like ice:
your noisy hands are anagrams
for the dust-yellow burn of a bee,
the Russian primavera and memory
a Tsarina’s kerchief.
Your hair slips under my sliding palm
while you eat strawberries like a sleepy girl
–this spoon weighs tons.
But who will bear interpretation,
the last words by seashell and by ear.
There is no grace for those who have been
intimate with the sun.