A stillness, some light that marks the shadow.
Even in spring when my coat sheds at my fingers
on the buttons, my shirt and base layer,
too, fallen to ground: a stillness. A light
ribbons my shoulder, my collarbone, makes
a dappling, a lace. O the winter here,
too long, too full of salt and cloud, loosened
enough for the bramble of me, for the
honeysuckle and forsythia,
the only flowers I knew to name.
In the stillness, the ease of your name
like blossom or bloom. Here the brown eye, black,
a dilation. Hear the blood, a promise:
the bramble is deep — it longs to part for you.