New leaves
on the old rose.
White blossom
on the black doris
plum.
You go out
from your name
to life’s
haberdashery, sit next
to a photographer
with surfer’s ear
at a concert by the
consort, in the Carillon.
There’s the woman
with the interesting waist
and so much sound
inside her body
that water leaks
from our eyes;
and the conductor, we are also
moved by him – his affirming
mouth, fingers wriggling
like bait.