Jeremy Radin

Forget about the airplanes, love.
There are no airplanes. There is only
lavender, the significance of lavender.
Astride a marble lion a baronness
brushes her hair in the lavender.
Under the soft & daffodillian lamps
the snowmelt writes its book of lavender.
Forget the airplanes, their convenient
pallbearing, their insistence on distances
discredited by lavender. We are drawn
together by strings of stone,
we are drawn by hand, by the hand
of a drawer made entirely of lavender.
The letters we wrote are dust-in-a-hutch
wherein we described ourselves
to each other like machines
against the lavender. A weaver sits
at his airplaneloom & weaves the air
into airplanes. It is none of our concern.
Our concern is lavender. Can you feel
my fingers in your hair when I brush them
over the lavender? For I cannot feel
your fingers anywhere. For the sky is full
of fingers feeling their way towards you.
& I am in the lavender. & I am a lesson
in the mind of a love hurtling
over the lavender