A ring of gold around your pupil, a corona around a singularity,
lacquered in visceral blue, cerulean, Prussian, your many weathers
give me many irises from which to choose, like the irises frilling the river
and colliding softly with the bending reeds. In your arms, I am stillness,
I am surrender, I am the bright leaves filling with sunlight or the counts
of quiet embracing the swelling murmurs of cicadas, their tides of sound,
in and out.