Meanwhile birds are singing in their Greek,
trees stir and chirrup, the darker veins
through buttery leaves like maps
of the routes of medicines or poison.
 
I am not insane
yet I am out of breath waiting for him to be out of breath:
waiting for the curtain, the rupture, tactile fact.
 
To be compelled into acceptance,
prone among blossoms, carried by water warm as a body
away but not drowning, mixed with lace spangle
of light on the leaves and the river,
 
one with a scatter of flowers, not drowning, not dying
but entrained—-a sleeper who knows she is flying
and does not question.