moon you have set

moon—

you have set

beneath the moss-bog,

under the weight of baked

apple-berry and  her tight stars

of blooms—under

 and inside the thin throat

of the adagio carnivore

her hooded chin, her patient

wait for prey--

did you push her open? 

if I folded back her curled,

red-veined leaves,

 would you

be

angled across the cup

of her stored water?

she has brined

you.

haven’t you loved

  every slow glide

of you

and she?

my nose is

a voyeur for this scent

and the distance is brief

(beneath the skin) from the turn

of my eye

to the silica

swaying in every lung

of simple wind.  i’d give up seeing

you if i could,

after pulling that plant

into my face,

make you my skin,

my liquid memory

then I would not have

to wait for the dark

to break you down,

to watch  you

slip into my room

and pilot over the floor.

All I would have

to be is

what that pitcher plant already is:

a deep bow,

a slow abiding decay,

 and a hood closed like lips

over what once may have been prey

but is now maker

cinched, even if briefly,

within the graven wind.