Yellow throats of iris drop into black. The curves of their
leaves sink like scarves falling from the hips of Salome while
slender stalks ascend. I would capture the pause of such
things. Like your back posed, rigid. Your hand raised,
your head turned just so. Or your eyes fixed and clear,
waiting. I have nothing to offer you. Not even the sprinkled
sound of soft maracas, clicked heels. The sun glints off
the Minneapolis skyline like a multitude of stars,
so lonely in their first sight of earth.
California Quarterly, 2002