the winding gold is false as water
the gods running on it’s back lost as men, the paper flowers in their tiny hands
dancing in a twisted crinkle
the wine is ready for tasting, the blood seal and the map opened into rose leaves, the green and webbed tinder or moss around the fire’s lashing branches
the orbit’s glow is you, the smooth circle of love in the bending dance arcs and the spin
moves us close in the silence of heart drums and the
sparkling murmur of eyelashes meeting.