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,
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.