Sleep comes like the darkness of ash
in the hours before noon:
without the promise of absolution.
I forget your name here.
And if you ask me if I regret anything,
I might say Forsythia;
the yellow-hued branches
I planted, the roots never taking hold.
Do I repent their golden flowers,
or the presence of their absence?
Your face pulls away
to the corners of a garden
I cannot enter--
Were you to walk beside me here
I would not force your eyes
to blossom again, surrender you
to watery perforations of sunlight.
You leave the taste of apple,
oh, my red delicious,
at stations where I kneel
and bring pieces of you to my lips.