With the customary jealousy I would feel Toward the creator of some perfect thing,

I stand at the threshold of the room in Which you are bent over our little egg-

Head, (who is already full of vexing Questions – is this comeuppance for

What we, in turn, did to our parents?) Humming, as you nudge her to hold

Still, as the comb in your hand rustles Through her jet black hair (O! this I

Fell in love with first, before anything when You rose towards me from that market crowd),

And wonder about that someone, who will Descend from the hills, to bear our locus

Of sight away, and spill this dark light, which You are now methodically braiding, all over his

White bed, just as I first loosened your jasmine Scented plait, overcome with desire and love.

Notes: You gaff a sudden image, which in a conversation suddenly lights a sulfur match in the aorta, and sends a spark coursing down wintry blood. Outside as thin rain drips from the eaves into pots of herbs – to grow flowers one needs a feminine presence inside one’s house or oneself – at the front door, you check for the presence of this image in the catalogue of images you loosely hold in a musty drawer standing in your back-skull.