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Floating in the air, the woman
invites.
She balances on all her love affairs.
She won't descend into the lower world
where she's forty, prefers the youthful sky.
Unsolved by reality, she looks
to the clouds, to the perfect phrase,
to music, for fairness.
She leaves the sky ajar so I can
come up to her.
With a shake of time, a come-on counterweight,
she invites me into her bedroom
of moon mirror, light wash and stenciled stars.
Something in her heart, her head,
is waiting to be upheld.
So for now she's held up.
By the hands of the years to come, most likely.
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