To His Mistress Going to Bed

O Central Nervous System,
take down your hair and come to bed.

The druids did not keep diaries,
but said their prayers
                        and were done with it.

The Eurasian plant droops at our feet
—a plea for rain—somehow its leaves

already seem wet. Small and white,
the flowers spread and hover, each stem

a street of open umbrellas.
Meanwhile, night. It oozes
                              and surrounds us.

We can go rough hewing, or yodel
the abandon in your gaze, cross

the open field of your abdomen.
Must we prolong the dearth? The sound

of a gallop crosses your face.

Muffle me, Optic Nerves, smother me
in the black ski mask of your undressing.

One sound bleeds into another—

Sparrow the blood form the humming
so

I drown in a faint echo

whose source I cannot locate.

Copyright © 2003 Nathan Hoks All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission