It's called "Epithalamion."
It's a wedding song, very old form.
Sappho wrote many epithalamia.
It's how she earned her living.
Our mound of Earth dug up for a new bedroom
is as graceful as the dunes we drive to see.
The scene dwarfs our scale.
We feel it tugging at her brow and bow, like guests in it,
yet we for bending are allowed to sing some blonde dunes
surface.
We believe would we see through the image
is the song at its source, and so assume the world love shares
our intelligence of heart, the natural hug,
the quick kiss overturned.
The smog, like their smiles more than what makes them smile.
White cows in November meadows and the galactic ravines.
Venus enters the bull at birth and again at will.
A door shuts twice.
The 12 rings of the night, outposts, reefs,
pockets of great abandon what we imagined poetry
to be as children, healed.
As women we are beautiful for remembering
how to relax all fours in an unmeasured field.
The moment heals.
Out past with the shale you think is going to hold
and doesn't.
Silverfish leap from the water.
Tears are worlds not seen.
Thank you.