Flowers From a Book
Opening up my notebook
with your flowers inside,
beautiful, like you, colours
and complexity catching
the eyes, the grass stem you
used to tie them in the countryside
outside Moscow last summer.
They’re a ready-made memory,
which is probably why you gave them
to me, as you gave me your pristine body,
satin skin, eyes wide open in orgasm,
burying your head in the bed sheets,
as those flowers would now be buried
in winter, instead preserved in paper.
And these words preserve you, pale
Blue eyes smiling back at me from my
inked letters on the white page, questioning
as always, and full of confusion at
the meaning of my language, the barrier
which finally finished us, cut short pleasure
suddenly, like a slowly ticking detonator.