The Absinthe Room

It is the green hour when my love arrives;
shrugging off life's bristling threads,
her exquisite liquid nakedness,
she soothes my brow with sweet palms
chill as iced water, her visage
milky opalescence, la louche, where
wild scents bloom: crisp fennel;
rich anise; wormwood.

Do you sleep? I know the evening
and the metal dawn. I work with
absolute materials: everything
and nothing.

A dreaming drowned man,
my mistress, glacial sage,
of such delicate health
she must sleep behind
UV-proof glass.

Suddenly the window is white.
Too much sun; the rush that burns.
Her fading footsteps.

I know a pure, clear-headed love.