beneath you is both a chaux vive burial,
quick with lime and spices of no particular odor
and stalking a windstorm insufficiently dressed.
It is the pull and transfer, flux of fluids,
trying to wane, to be austere, failing.
veil and medieval refusal lost
somewhere tonguing the broad surface full waxing.
Examine my bones and skin in the harsh
round light, then clothe me in the robes
and jewels of your fantasies.
the sumptuary laws my darling,
deny denial, let a moon-driven gale
take us on an unholy pilgrimage
to all the scented places at the frayed
edges of our lifemaps. Hic sunt dracones.
Delilah Riordan, 2000