May the phenomena remain unexplained, like the golden virgins brooding on miracles,
or the butterfly that traverses the sun’s corona at the intersection.
May hasty letters remain uninterpreted, and the tendency to follow butterflies,
and the hole in the street, and the desire to descend to where the line of consciousness
does not reach.
You wanted to die but life demanded you for itself,
it gave you a bloodshot branch to hold and said: Take care of this,
and you wept, and changed it back into a human being.
The trees that frightened you as a child now stand around your bed,
one in each corner. They support the canopy and the sleeper’s sleep.
On the pillow, hands and a small calm face.
Light wraps the shoulders’ brown sand hills, wraps the forehead,
undulates softly from the hollow of the throat to the waist, and rests there.
Dolores sleeps. Her body pushes forth leaves and shoots, branches out,
grows dense, becomes a root system. A rosebush grows out of the headboard.
Small pink flowers open up at the ends of her hair.
The virgins sit on the edge of the bed and talk to the trees.
Dolores does not wake up, does not interpret, does not hear.
The virgins and Dolores walk in the gardens of sleep. They collect
leaf gold off wings and read in flight what the butterfly never,
never has time to write.
How small and bright the world has become!
says Dolores, and sleeps. Whitewashed dreams.
Oil lamp’s swings on the ceiling.
Smoke curlicues in the air that is the color of water.
Golden slippers on the saint’s icon.
Beauty that is a human being’s own,
no longer the inborn charm of youth
but the noble irrevocability of a fresco nearing completion.
This is Dolores.
Dolores in the rosetree
Dolores in birdsong
The face whiter than light, and in repose.
Everything round about grows and trails.
It has been written, all has been written in the name.