Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The woman is preparing her body for sleep.
She hangs the hair forward
and it almost touches her feet.

As long as I struggle to float above the ground
and fail, there is reason for this poetry.
On the stone back of the Ludovici throne, Venus

This New England kind of love reminds me
of the potted chrysanthemum my husband
gave me. I cared for it faithfully,

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.