An Internal Landscape

A room should be a boat, rocking
high in a surprised wind
where the bedcovers curve
to fingertips
where sunflowers rise thirty feet
to stare in open windows
Other fingertips clawing
our windowsills belong to trees
and not jealous loves
we have forgotten —
As stalks beneath “Tulips Planted”
in the park ripen to green
so our love ripens lazily
beyond our reach
in a gift of a room.
Our faces ripen.
Does love grow in layers?
Cells of layers?
Each dot of color blending
like leaves burning
in a single tree
burning us to a single
unwary marriage of love