K. S. Hodges

love calls the dream

                He is formed in mists, the seducer,
                in scented phrases and light-arcs off windows,
                in mirror-flashes and shadowed sets.
                He stands behind her where she
                does not quite see, murmuring,
                she does not quite hear.  Call me.

                He weaves a world of silk scarves
                and sliding dreams, slipping garments,
                tangled limbs. A soft whirlpool pulls
                her in, crossing streets, crossing edges,
                passing barriers.

                He takes her arm, walks her down a corridor
                of imagination, tongues flicking at lips,
                at ears, opens a door. She stands staring
                at the flood of light, smell of camellia and rose,
                hum of crickets,  hesitating.  One step across
                the brink.  He opens his hand and offers
                six pomegranate seeds.