You kneel, the fold of your knees pressing in,
the wail of a midnight train that parts my dreams.
There is no peace in the march of a tulip, fiery
orange into the blue sheen of snow. Steady
shorelines have no desire to defend themselves
from the crush of incoming tides. Yet you are
the face of the moon hung high on my thighs,
my secret shining. Your hands on my belly
tell me you no longer fear the invasion
promised by the smile of the Sunday sun.