Like the final flap of the wounded duck before it crashes
the words leave my mouth on a desperate flight:
I love you.
I know it's true, the cactus bloom told me before the morning,
before the moths inhaled its wilting veils with an orphan cry:
And when I joined their swirl around the sun, surrendering my wings
to a sweet and painful singe, a searing sound:
Again, again, again.
At last I stitched my burning body with a pearl head pin
onto the rising moon,
up from the smoke my heart exhales: