A man on 26th Street sets moon flowers to start

    in egg cartons on a table beside his bed.

    Soon they will loop around the gray windows louvers

    twining sweetness through his dreams.

    Close your eyes， give way

    and the sheets， yes， your skin，

    are her skin and take the voice，

    take your own hand with her voice guiding

    and here are the flowers opening like time-lapse

    photography——tendrils finding the small

    pocks in the concrete， close now，

    the moon of her face lifts between your thighs¹.

    What is real？ The man slapping potting soil

    from his hands？ A prediction of tides

    from the lunar chart of water rings

    the carton leaves on the table's wood finish？

    And where is she？ Whisper her name

    and static answers， open the windows

    and the silent trumpets² of the flowers

    dip and rise casually³ in the air.