Destination, in the land of never enough,
   is the cornice of all I can give / all that I know,
         given over to deep blue sky.

The confirmation of poet is doctor;
   the consummation of doctor is poet.
         I have a black, silk-velvet gown.

In the composite, stranger / oh most intimate
   incarnates the lens, eyes promontory, body oblique.
         Her lover is a dried red rose.

At her feet, finch eggs in a blue ceramic cone.
   The injured pigeon, now set free, nestles at her hem.
         She is barefoot, primed to fly / to fall.

End print, half-kneeling, deep set in dark, clavicles
   encrypt snow-angel wings / the stethoscope's repose and
         constellate the white line of her throat.