Donna Vorreyer

Clematis vines climb the trellis on the east wall,

a panic of green limb and pink mouth.

The dog scratches his need against the dim

window. I rise to pull back the door,

let him out to roll and sniff the good grass,

all scramble and delight. I pick roses

without gloves, longing for a thorn, an arrow

to pierce me awake. Moths gather on

the screen door, still and silent. Last night,

they fluttered over our chests in the dark,

drawn to us, punch-drunk, oh, they knew

that our bodies together are the purest light.