A Myth

My love may make your skin
turn red and raw-turn into
some ashes, my love might give
you chlamydia if you can call that
out and make it likened to

a sound: my body, a rough
instrument or a roughly planted
bundle of flowers, a black grecian
sentiment that starts with
O! If I were a man instead

of a bear I would celebrate the way
that you move on to a different
thought when we are talking
in the afternoon in the front yard
in front of everybody: the body

turns to perfect glass: the body of the city
we are loving each other through
is the sort of thing that goes
transparent when you start thinking
about it: something else entirely

is about to stop our hearts. Think about
the taste of river water. Don't come up
on me from behind and present
that as a transformation.
I know you are neither angelic

nor inanimate, I am nothing
but a bear who wants to make things
glimmer with my muzzle
tucked into the water, tipped
down into the water and back:

up to find the roseate
glow of your black
old border: everyone else has left
us alone on the grass by

the patches of hard-droped peonies,
and it is almost going
to be morning.