To Isis
You appear in my room at 4 a.m.
You have just floated through the wall.
It must have been the desire of my tongue
for the smooth line of your collarbone.
There are photographs in the water,
Waves to dive under.
I try to keep my memories
dry.
But what is this music?
A flute. Primitive stone houses on the hill.
Leaves. Cherry blossoms of light.
Warm mist after music.
It was only desire music of arms.
Flute of tongue on the back of my neck.
Earth music of the iris
to plant again.
— Diane Frank
