Tremor, Release

That halfway ground
between sleep and love opens
hovers as a scythe
sailing through roses
pulled ripe from the stalk that swells
and dreads its own veracity.  

That sleet
slipping off a seagull’s wing plunges
into the divine of a lover’s flesh
awakened, hovering
seeming to scale the snow-capped peak
merely by knowledge of gravity
or the striation of starlight
softly firing porcelain glass
which the peak opens, screaming. 

That spread of bountiful rose-buds
sprouting in the Holland sunrise
awakens, sets itself free
glides in the radiance of a gull’s open wing
beating the long suave swing of a scythe.