The Undressing

See the roofs from the deck,
see these hands on the railing.

Branches cut the wind like rudders,
though nothing is steered.

Oh, this steering is nothing—
each second like a leaf in water,

losing its color. Once a firefly
floating in a wine glass,

once a pool-lit cocktail party.
Once a moth's ash wings

pinned between my fingers.
Once down the backyard hill—,

once sunspots faded on my skin
where she touched me once.

Once footprints in the snow
I stepped in each day to class,

once water sopping the sheet
beneath the porch door.

I went on vacation once—
there were open shells

on the kitchen table.
Once the garage was clean,

I parked the car in there.
After dinner once

she opened her shirt to me,
and just as each image

opens inward on another image,
I hold inside me

her sleeping body
like a patch of dandelions,

waiting for the wind.

Copyright © 2006 Wayne Miller All rights reserved
from Only the Senses Sleep
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Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission