His open closet is an avalanche
of cloudy blues and winter plaids,
festival tee shirts and tough-to-tie
Tibetan pants toppling each other
like snow. I watch from over
his shoulder as he sets like the sun
between my knees. I am aching
moss slowly churned into moist
earth. I am always naked here.
My shoes are by the front door
and the yard is full of bees. From
his fingers, I take my taste of God.
There are flowers in the bathwater.
There are mushrooms in the tea.