Irises

1.

In the night, in the wind, at the edge of rain,

I find five irises, and call them lovely.

As if a woman, once, lay by them awhile,

then woke, rose, went, the memory of hair

lingers on their sweet tongues.

I’d like to tear these petals with my teeth.

I’d like to investigate these hairy selves,

their beauty and indifference. They hold

their breath all their lives

and open, open.

2.

We are not lovers, not brother and sister,

though we drift hand in hand through a hall

thrilling and burning as thought and desire

expire, and, over this dream of life,

this life of sleep, we waken dying—

violet becoming blue, growing

black, black—all that

an iris ever prays,

when it prays,

to be.