Sweet nothing, send back your fire
to its den, don’t keep it alight
in your hand. Bury this viridian
in your eye, it saturates my sight.
No angel sing, there is no sound
only children falling in the park.
Adjust this red pride on your thighs,
Sweet nothing, don’t put a belt
around my heart. No one can
avoid this steel blue, no one
can evade its still surface.
There are no lovers as light
as larks, they only float
in Chagall’s mind. The horizon
lies on the ground, Sweet nothing,
keep that bare truth between
your thighs. Give me one more
sip of cherry wine before I yank
the arrow out.