Why She Says No

Two friends at the close of summer.

On the path, the birds quicken.

While he talks,

he strokes her arm in one direction

as if it had a nap of feathers.

How handsomely the heart's valves

lie open for the bloodrush.

How her body also begins to open.

At the edge of the woods, they pass

goldenrod and lupine, the tall thin weeds

supple as a whale's teeth

conducting the avid fish to the interior.

She is not the mouth, whatever you think

and even though she craves

this closeness, its rich transfusion.

Desire is the mouth, the manipulating heart,

the wing. Above her,

the branches of the pines, their quilled expanse

blanketing the subtler vegetation.